GIFT 


8f  OMATIC 


d$atet»ai? 

OF   ENGLISH   TEXTS 

GENERAL   EDITOR 
HENRY   VAN    DYKE 


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GATEWAY  SERIES 


SELECTIONS  FROM 

BYRON,  WORDSWORTH,  SHELLEY 
KEATS.  AND  BROWNING 

EDITED    BY 

CHARLES    TOWNSEND    COPELAND 

LECTURER   ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 
IN    HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 

AND 

HENRY   MILNER   RIDEOUT 


NEW  YORK  .:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 

AMERICAN   BOOK  COMPANY. 

ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL,  LONDON. 


SELECTIONS. 

w.  P.    6 


GIFT 


PREFACE    BY   THE    GENERAL 
EDITOR 

THIS  series  of  books  aims,  first,  to  give  the  English 
texts  required  for  entrance  'to  college  in  a  form  which 
shall  make  them  clear,  interesting,  and  helpful  to  those 
who  are  beginning  the  study  of  literature ;  and,  second, 
to  supply  the  knowledge  which  the  student  needs  to 
pass  the  entrance  examination.  For  these  two  reasons 
it  is  called  The  Gateway  Series. 

The  poems,  plays,  essays,  and  stories  in  these  small 
volumes  are  treated,  first  of  all,  as  works  of  literature, 
which  were  written  to  be  read  and  enjoyed,  not  to  be 
parsed  and  scanned  and  pulled  to  pieces.  A  short  life 
of  the  author  is  given,  and  a  portrait,  in  order  to  help 
the  student  to  know  the  real  person  who  wrote  the 
book.  The  introduction  tells  what  it  is  about,  and 
how  it  was  written,  and  where  the  author  got  the  idea, 
and  what  it  means.  The  notes  at  the  foot  of  the  page 
are  simply  to  give  the  sense  of  the  hard  words  so  that 
the  student  can  read  straight  on  without  turning  to  a 
dictionary.  The  other  notes,  at  the  end  of  the  book, 
explain  difficulties  and  allusions  and  fine  points. 

5 


6  Preface  by  the  General   Editor 

The  editors  are  chosen  because  of  their  thorough 
training  and  special  fitness  to  deal  with  the  books 
committed  to  them,  and  because  they  agree  with  this 
idea  of  what  a  Gateway  Series  ought  to  be.  They 
express,  in  each  case,  their  own  views  of  the  books 
which  they  edit.  Simplicity,  thoroughness,  shortness, 
and  clearness,  —  these,  we  hope,  will  be  the  marks  of 
the  series. 

HENRY   VAN   DYKE. 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


CONTENTS 

LORD  BYRON  PAGE 

Introduction »        •        •        .         9 

Selected  Poems        .         .         .         .         ....       23 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Introduction     .         .         .         .         .         .         *    »    .         .69 

Selected  Poems        .         .         .         .        .    '    .         9        .       85 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Introduction    .         .         .         •     '    •         •         •         •         .  159 

Selected  Poems         .         .         .         .         .         .        .         •  !75 

JOHN  KEATS 

Introduction    .         .         .        .        .        0        ...  209 

Selected  Poems 225 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

Introduction    .........     245 

Selected  Poems .         .261 

NOTES 309 


LORD    BYRON 
I.  LIFE 

GEORGE  GORDON,  afterward  sixth  Lord  Byron,  was 
born  in  Holies  Street,  London,  January  22,  1788.  His 
mother,  Catherine  Gordon,  had  become  the  second  wife 
of  John  Byron,  a  handsome  profligate  who  deserted 
her  and  her  child,  fled  from  his  creditors,  and  died  at 
Valenciennes  in  1791.  Till  her  son  was  ten  years  old, 
Mrs.  Byron  lived  in  Scotland,  chiefly  at  Aberdeen,  on 
a  meagre  income  of  ^"150  a  year.  But  in  1798  the 
fifth  Lord  Byron  died,  —  the  boy's  great-uncle,  that 
"  wicked  lord  "  who  was  brother  to  the  Admiral,  "  Foul- 
weather  Jack."  At  school  roll-call,  after  the  news  ar- 
rived, the  name  of  George  Gordon  was  read  out  with 
"  Dominus  "  before  it,  and  the  precocious  little  lame 
boy  burst  into  tears,  in  some  mingled  and  violent  emo- 
tion. 

With  his  mother  and  the  Scotch  nurse  who  had  taught 
him  to  read  the  Bible,  the  young  Lord  Byron  soon  jour- 
neyed south  in  a  post-chaise,  to  live  near  Newstead 
Abbey,  the  family  seat,  then  partly  ruined,  which  Henry 
VIII  granted  to  "  little  Sir  John  Byron  of  the  great 
beard. "  Here  they  remained  for  a  year.  Their  life 
together  was  never  happy.  "  Byron,"  a  schoolmate 
once  said,  "  your  mother  is  a  fool ! "  And  the  poor 

9 


io  Lord  Byron 

child  replied,  tragically,  "I  know  it!"  By  fits  and 
starts  Mrs.  Byron  was  kind  to  him,  but  she  had  a  stormy 
temper,  hysterical  and  ungovernable,  and  by  turns 
petted  and  beat  him.  Once  at  least  she  rushed  at 
him  with  the  poker,  and  Byron  defended  himself  with 
the  chairs.  Later,  at  Southwell,  mother  and  son  each 
secretly  warned  an  apothecary  not  to  sell  poison  to 
the  other,  if  it  should  be  asked  for.  A  violent  pair, 
they  lived  in  a  tempest.  Perhaps  what  hurt  Byron 
most,  his  mother  once  called  him  a  "  lame  brat." 
Quietly,  but  with  a  terrible  light  in  his  eyes,  he  replied, 
"  I  was  born  so,  mother !  " 

He  was  born,  indeed,  with  a  deformity — a  sort  of 
club-foot — which  throughout  his  life  he  hardly  forgot 
for  a  moment.  The  defect  appears  not  to  have  been 
greatly  noticeable,  but  he  brooded  over  it  always : 
from  the  time  when,  on  his  nurse's  knees,  he  cut  with 
his  baby's  whip  at  a  visitor  who  noticed  his  foot,  crying, 
"  Dinna  speak  of  it !  " — from  his  school  days  at  Harrow, 
where  cruel  bullies  put  his  lame  foot  into  a  bucket  of 
water ;  from  the  days  when  he  jealously  watched  his 
cousin,  Mary  Chaworth,  dancing  with  other  youths,  to 
his  last  hours  on  his  death-bed.  His  lameness  cut  him 
off  from  many  games  and  exercises,  but  not  all.  At 
Harrow — where  he  stayed  from  1801  to  1805,  and 
where  his  head-master  discovered  talents  which  would 
"add  lustre  to  his  rank  " — he  not  only  led  all  the  boys' 
rebellions,  but  fought  the  larger  boys  who  tormented 
the  smaller,  and — lameness  and  all — won  six  battles 
out  of  seven. 


Introduction  n 

Though  later  of  a  strikingly  beautiful  face  and  figure, 
he  was  at  this  time  described  by  an  acquaintance  as  "  a 
fat,  bashful  boy,  with  hair  combed  straight  over  his 
forehead,  and  looking  a  perfect  gaby."  He  was  con- 
ceited as  well  as  shy,  and  not  very  popular  among  girls. 
We  need  not  be  surprised,  therefore,  that  when,  in  his 
sixteenth  year,  he  fell  in  love  with  his  cousin,  Mary 
Chaworth,  she  did  not  fall  in  love  with  him.  She  after- 
ward married  a  commonplace  squire  named  Musters, 
and  married  unhappily.  For  years  Byron  brooded  over 
this  disappointment,  but  most  over  an  unintentionally 
cruel  rebuke,  when  he  heard  Mary  Chaworth  say  to  her 
maid:  "  Do  you  think  I  could  marry  that  lame  boy?  " 

When  Byron  went  up  to  Cambridge  in  1805,  you  must 
picture  him  as  a  brilliant,  vain,  sensitive  youngster, 
whom  the  gyp  (the  man  that  took  care  of  his  rooms) 
feared  as  "  a  young  man  of  tumultuous  passions  "  ;  who 
made  several  sincere  friends,  Long,  Harness,  Matthews, 
Scrope  Davies,  and  Hobhouse ;  who  found  Cambridge 
dull,  and  became  a  harum-scarum  undergraduate,  some- 
times sitting  up  over  champagne  and  claret  till  after  mid- 
night ;  who  was  a  good  cricketer,  rider,  boxer,  could  dive 
in  the  Cam  and  get  coins  fourteen  feet  deep,  and  was  an 
expert  shot.  His  pistols  he  carried  everywhere  and 
fired  at  all  times  and  places, — alarming  people,  as  he 
also  alarmed  them  by  keeping  a  tame  bear,  who,  he 
said,  was  to  "  sit  for  a  fellowship."  Meantime  he  pub- 
lished in  1806  a  volume  of  juvenile  poems,  and  in  1807 
his  Hours  of  Idleness.  Ir>  1808,  after  three  irregular 
years  in  which  he  had  done  everything  but  study,  he 


12  Lord  Byron 

took  the  honorary  (nobleman's)  degree  of  M.A.,  and 
left  Cambridge  for  London. 

Here  he  was  wilder  than  ever,  and  boasted  of  being 
so  ;  for  he  always  took  a  foolish  delight  in  thinking 
himself  very  wicked,  and  in  telling  everybody  about  it, 
with  exaggerations.  He  had  an  almost  insane  desire 
to  shock  people.  Sensitive,  moody,  he  was  forever 
disclosing  and  falsifying  his  most  intimate  nature. 
His  gifts  he  had  not  yet  disclosed  ;  till  a  savage,  "  tom- 
ahawk "  criticism  of  the  Hours  of  Idleness,  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  for  January,  1808,  roused  him  into  a  rage. 
Mere  rage,  but  also  a  stinging  wit,  made  his  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  something  more  than  a 
reply  to  his  critics.  It  was  the  most  notable  satirical 
poem  since  the  age  of  Pope.  It  scoffed  at  men  he 
knew,  and  men  he  did  not  know ;  at  books  he  had 
read,  and  books  he  had  never  seen  the  covers  of. 
Wholesale  ridicule  by  a  youngster  of  twenty-one,  often 
shallow  and  unjust,  it  showed  power.  A  few  days  be- 
fore the  poem  appeared,  Byron  had  taken  his  seat  in 
the  House  of  Lords,  haughtily,  or  at  least  negligently. 
He  now  retired  with  a  few  friends  to  Newstead,  for  a 
long  and  strange  carousal,  with  the  popping  of  corks 
and  pistols,  with  a  wolf*  and  a  bear  to  tease,  and  with 
fencing  and  swimming,  and  late  hours  of  wild  discus- 
sion and  ghost  stories,  while  they  drank  wine  from  the 
skull  of  an  old  monk.  These  orgies  were  doubtless 
bad  enough,  but  not  at  all  so  dark  as  the  readers  of 
Childe  Harold  afterward  imagined. 

The  travels  which  led   to   that   famous   poem   now 


Introduction  13 

began.  From  Newstead,  Byron  went  witn  Hobhouse 
and  a  few  servants  to  Falmouth,  and  sailed  thence  for 
Lisbon.  He  journeyed  for  two  years  through  Greece, 
Turkey,  the  Troad,  and  the  Greek  isles.  He  dined 
with  Ali  Pasha,  the  Albanian  bandit,  assassin,  and 
despot ;  he  met  the  Maid  of  Athens  ;  and  with  Lieuten- 
ant Ekenhead,  he  swam  Leander's  Hellespont,  from 
Sestos  to  Abydos.  After  many  adventurous  wander- 
ings, he  returned  to  England  in  1811,  "without  a 
hope,"  he  said,  "  and  almost  without  a  desire,  .  .  . 
sick  of  poesy,"  but  with  "  some  4000  lines,  of  one  kind 
and  another,"  written  on  his  travels. 

Within  a  month  his  mother  died.  For  all  their 
constant  battles  and  patched-up  truces,  Byron  was 
deeply  affected.  Sorrow  and  renown  came  to  him  in 
the  same  year.  Matthews,  drowned  in  the  Cam,  was 
the  fourth  friend  he  had  lost.  On  the  ist  of  March, 
1812,  when  the  first  and  second  cantos  of  Childe 
Harold  appeared,  Byron  "  woke  and  found  himself 
famous."  In  four  weeks  the  book  ran  through  seven 
editions.  The  success  was  electric.  The  first  edition 
of  Burns,  and  Scott's  Lays,  were  the  only  popular  tri- 
umphs of  poetry  to  be  compared  with  this.  Sir  Walter 
himself  soon  gave  up  writing  poetry,  he  said,  "  because 
Byron  beat  me."  Byron,  indeed,  rapidly  followed  up  his 
first  success  with  others :  in  1813,  The  Waltz,  The  Giaour, 
and  The  Bride  of  Abydos,  which  last  he  dashed  off  in 
four  nights  ;  next  year,  The  Corsair,  written  in  ten  days, 
sold  to  the  extent  of  14,000  copies  in  one  day;  in  the 
same  year  appeared  Lara;  and  in  1816,  The  Siege  of 


14  Lord  Byron 

Corinth  and  Parisina.  In  ten  years,  ^75,000  had 
passed  over  the  publisher  Murray's  counter,  from  Lord 
Byron's  pen  alone.  Byron  and  Byronic  romance  be- 
came the  fashion,  not  only  in  England,  but  all  over  the 
continent. 

The  two  most  popular  English  poets  of  the  day,  Scott 
and  Byron  (for  you  must  remember  that  Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  and  Keats  were  long  neglected  and  obscure), 
met  in  London  in  1815.  They  became  friends,  and 
afterwards  exchanged  gifts,  "  like  the  old  heroes  of 
Homer."  Scott  found  the  new-risen  genius  irritable, 
suspicious,  but  also  gay  and  generous.  Lord  Byron 
—  he  afterward  said  regretfully  —  could  not  be  happy 
in  the  common  way.  "As  for  poets,"  he  also  said, 
"  I  have  seen  all  the  best  of  my  time  and  country,  and 
...  I  never  thought  any  of  them  would  come  up  to  an 
artist's  notion  of  the  character,  except  Byron.  His 
countenance  is  a  thing  to  dream  of."  A  child  once 
described  him  as  "  the  gentleman  with  the  beautiful 
voice."  Lady  Blessington  wrote  that  "his  mouth  was 
splendid,  and  his  scornful  expression  was  real,  not 
affected,  but  a  sweet  smile  often  broke  through  his 
melancholy."  And  Lady  Caroline  Lamb,  at  first  sight 
of* Byron,  exclaimed,  "That  pale  face  is  my  fate!" 
We  need  not  wonder  that  Byron  fascinated  many  women, 
of  high  and  low  degree;  and  that  from  1813  to  1816, 
he  was  the  social  lion  of  the  Regency. 

His  marriage  with  Miss  Anne  Isabella  Milbanke,  in 
1815,  was  very  unhappy.  Five  weeks  after  the  birth 
of  their  daughter,  Augusta  Ada,  Lady  Byron  left  her 


Introduction  15 

husband.  Their  troubles  were  discussed  publicly, 
Byron's  real  and  grave  faults  were  magnified  by  slan- 
der, and  a  reaction  setting  in  against  him,  this  hero  of 
the  hour  was  attacked  so  atrociously  as  a  monster,  a 
Nero,  a  Satan,  that  in  1816  he  left  England,  never  to 
come  back. 

In  Switzerland  he  wrote  the  third  canto  of  Childe 
Harold,  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and  Prometheus. 
He  then  journeyed  to  Italy,  where  he  lived  for  the 
next  seven  years.  In  1817,  at  Venice,  he  finished 
Manfred,  and  wrote  the  Lament  of  Tasso,  the  fourth 
canto  of  Childe  Harold,  and  Beppo ;  in  the  next  two 
years,  the  Ode  on  Venice,  Mazeppa,  and  the  first  four 
cantos  of  Don  Juan;  in  1820  and  1821,  at  Ravenna, 
the  Prophecy  of  Dante,  Marino  Faliero,  Sardanapalus, 
The  Two  Foscari,  Cain,  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  A  Vi- 
sion of  Judgment.  During  the  rest  of  his  stay,  he  wrote 
Werner,  The  Deformed  Transformed,  and  The  Island,  and 
finished  Don  Juan.  Meantime  he  had  fallen  in  with 
Shelley.  The  two  revolutionary  poets  lived  at  Pisa  in 
the  closest  friendship;  and  when  in  1822  Shelley  was 
drowned,  Byron  grieved  beside  that  strange  funeral 
pyre  on  the  beach.  His  own  life,  throughout  this 
period,*  was  irregular  and  reckless.  Fasting  and  revel- 
ling by  turns,  he  ruined  himself  by  his  many  excesses. 

But  out  of  this  sensual  existence  he  rose,  to  redeem 
it  by  a  splendid  end.  From  a  fantastic,  posing  volup- 
tuary, he  suddenly  became  a  man  of  action,  a  practical 
financier,  soldier,  and  liberator.  He  had  always  hated 
despotism ;  his  name  was  already  linked  with  that  of 


1 6  Lord  Byron 

Greece;  and  when  the  Greek  war  of  independence, 
after  two  successful  years,  seemed  ready  to  fail  through 
dissension  and  poverty,  it  was  natural  that  English 
friends  of  the  Hellenic  cause,  planning  an  expedition  of 
aid,  should  offer  Byron  the  command.  On  July  15-16, 
1823,  taking  along  Shelley's  friend,  Captain  Trelawny, 
and  a  few  others,  Byron  set  sail  from  Genoa  in  the  brig 
"  Hercules,"  with  arms  and  ammunition,  horses,  medi- 
cines, and  50,000  crowns  in  money.  Fondness  for 
display  —  as  his  enemies  urged  —  may  have  impelled 
Byron  at  first ;  but  every  day  disclosed  and  strength- 
ened his  high  purpose.  From  the  marshes  of  Misso- 
longhi,  among  fevers  and  turmoils,  the  poet-soldier 
disciplined  his  quarrelling  Suliotes,  repaired  fortifica- 
tions, directed  ships,  negotiated  for  loans,  and  issued 
clear  and  statesmanlike  orders.  "  Your  counsels,"  said 
the  Greek  prince,  "  will  be  listened  to  like  oracles." 
Fortune,  however,  would  not  suffer  Byron  to  find  a  sol- 
dier's grave,  to  "  look  around,  and  choose  his  ground, 
and  take  his  rest "  ;  for  a  fever  seized  him  in  that  bog, 
and  on  April  19,  1824,  he  died,  calling  on  the  names 
of  Augusta  Leigh,  his  sister,  and  of  Ada,  his  dead 
child. 

"  Byron  is  dead  !  "  sounded  in  the  streets,  said  Tre- 
lawny, like  a  -bell  tolling.  Mavrocordatos  commanded 
the  battery  to  fire  thirty-seven  guns,  one  for  each  year 
of  the  short  life.  Lord  Byron's  body  lies  with  his  an- 
cestors in  the  village  church  of  Hucknall,  for  Westmin- 
ster Abbey  refused  a  grave  to  the  author  of  Cain.  But 
his  spirit  had  "  led  the  genius  of  Britain  on  a  pilgrimage 


Introduction  17 

throughout  all  Europe"  ;  as  for  the  birthplace  of  Homer, 
cities  of  Greece  had  contended  for  his  burial-place  ; 
and  Athens  would  have  laid  her  defender  in  the  Temple 
of  Theseus. 

II.   POEMS 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  was  written  at  Ouchy  within 
two  days,  June  26  and  27,  1816,  the  first  year  of  Byron's 
exile  and  one  of  the  few  most  important  years  of  his 
life.  Byron,  always  alive  to  the  horrors  of  oppression, 
had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the  meagre  account  of  the 
sufferings  of  Bonnivard,  a  political  prisoner  in  the  Castle 
of  Chillon,  and  by  the  sight  of  the  room  in  which  he 
was  confined.  "  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated 
between  Clarens  and  Villeneuve,  which  last  is  at  one 
extremity  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are  the 
entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heights  of 
Meillerie,  and  the  range  of  Alps  above  Boveret  and  St. 
Gingo.  Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent :  below 
it,  washing  its  walls,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to 
the  depth  of  800  feet,  French  measure :  within  it  are 
a  range  of  dungeons,  in  which  the  early  reformers,  and 
subsequently  prisoners  of  state,  were  confined.  Across 
one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age,  on  which 
we  were  informed  that  the  condemned  were  formerly 
executed.  In  the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather; 
eight,  one  being  half  merged  in  the  wall ;  in  some 
of  these  are  rings  for  the  fetters  and  the  fettered:  in 
the  pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their 
traces.  He  was  confined  here  several  years.  .  .  . 

SELECTIONS  —  2 


1 8  Lord  Byron 

The  Chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a 
great  distance.  The  walls  are  white." 

You  cannot  better  study  the  processes  of  a  poet's  mind 
in  a  work  of  this  kind  than  by  comparing  these  matter- 
of-fact  details  with  the  poem.  In  any  good  encyclopaedia 
or  annotated  edition  of  Byron  you  will  find  material, 
which  you  may  well  use,  for  further  comparison ;  and 
your  teachers  will  no  doubt  put  you  in  the  way  of  seeing 
some  of  the  many  photographs  of  Chillon  and  the 
Lake  of  Geneva. 

The  poem  is  written  in  a  quieter,  more  chastened 
spirit  than  was  common  with  Byron,  and  it  is  of  su- 
perior form  to  his  earlier  short  narratives.  In  fact, 
not  only  do  The  Prisoner  and  Mazeppa  proceed  almost 
wholly  without  digression,  but  their  sheer  speed  of 
narrative  is  what  Byron  never  attained  in  his  longer 
pieces  and  rarely  even  in  his  shorter  ones.  This  means 
also,  of  course,  that  scenery,  on  which  Byron  and  other 
romantic  poets  are  prone  to  insist  too  much,  is  here 
fleeting,  incidental,  strictly  subordinate  to  the  story  and 
the  impression  it  gives  of  Bonnivard.  Yet  the  work 
would  scarcely  be  Byron's  if,  concerned  with  outdoors 
at  all,  it  did  not  contain  some  memorable  picture. 
And  indeed  the  one  landscape  in  The  Prisoner  not 
only  gains  by  isolation  and  contrast,  but  it  is  one  of 
those  triumphs  of  art  in  which  much  is  shown  in  strokes 
as  few  as  they  are  secure.  Bonnivard,  having  ascended 
to  his  barred  windows  to  catch  sight  of  the  mountains 
again,  says,  in  lines  that  have  been  often  quoted  and 
that  will  be  quoted  many  times  in  the  future  — 


Introduction  19 

"  I  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush; 
I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 
The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue." 

As  definite,  you  see,  as  Elim,  with  its  palm  trees  and 
its  wells  of  water,  in  the  Book  of  Exodus.  And  these 
lines,  so  far  from  breaking  the  unity  of  the  poem,  serve 
to  strengthen  it  and  to  deepen  the  pathos  of  the  whole. 
The  passion  and  pathos  of  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  are 
cumulative  in  their  effect,  and  grow  through  the  account 
of  the  prisoner  himself,  and  of  the  deaths  of  his  broth- 
ers beside  him  ;  of  the  madness  of  the  prisoner,  followed 
by  despair ;  of  the  bird's  song,  coming  suddenly  on 
his  solitude  and  desolation ;  of  his  final  state,  when 
long  imprisonment  has  made  him  unfit  for  freedom. 
The  fine  sonnet,  beginning 

"  Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind," 


2O  Lord  Byron 

which  would  be  impressive  by  itself,  both  gains 
and  gives  by  being  used  as  introduction  to  the 
narrative. 

Mazeppa  has  for  introduction  the  lines  in  which 
Byron,  following  the  facts  briefly  stated  by  Voltaire  in  his 
history  of  Charles  XII  of  Sweden,  relates  the  hard- 
ships and  adventures  of  Charles  after  the  disastrous 
battle  of  Pultowa,  on  July  8,  1709.  The  poet  repre- 
sents Mazeppa,  then  Prince  of  Ukrania  and  an  old 
man,  as  endeavouring  to  cheer  the  king  with  the  ac- 
count of  his  wild  and  terrible  ride  when  he  was  a  young 
man.  Here,  also,  Byron  took  his  hint  —  no  more  —  from 
Voltaire.  Mazeppa,  published  in  1819,  was  a  reversion 
to  the  manner  that  Byron  got  from  Scott,  and  now 
used  with  surer  effect  than  at  first.  After  the  ride 
once  begins,  Mazeppa  is  rapid  and  fiery  to  the  end, 
and  the  episode  of  the  wolves  is  as  preternaturally 
vivid  as  anything  in  Tarn  o*  Shanter.  Indeed,  not- 
withstanding the  length  of  the  work,  you  will  at  once 
see  a  kinship  between  Mazeppa's  ride  and  the  rides 
of  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  Paul  Revere,  and  Browning's  un- 
named hero  who  rode  from  Ghent  to  Aix.  The  swift, 
uninterrupted  movement  is  for  most  readers  the  main 
interest,  and  for  many  readers  the  only  interest,  in 
verses  of  this  sort.  Yet  Byron's  narrative,  like  Brown- 
ing's, is  helped  to  reality  by  the  rapid  succession  of 
objects  that  take  the  rider's  eye.  The  steed,  the  wolves, 
the  stream,  the  wood,  the  coming  sun,  the  "  thousand 
horse  and  none  to  ride,"  are  all  a  part  of  your  experi- 
ence while  you  read,  as  they  were  of  Mazeppa's  while 


Introduction  21 

he  rode.     Movement  and  vision  hurry  on  together  in 
the  strong,  rushing  verse. 

The  Byron  of  these  two  episodic  poems  is,  of  course, 
not  the  Byron  whose  genius  set  all  Europe  on  fire. 
But  The  Prisoner  and  Mazeppa,  like  everything  else 
from  his  pen,  were  eagerly  read,  and  did  not  lack 
comfort  for  despairing  lovers  of  freedom  on  a  continent 
where,  not  without  help  from  free  England,  the  old 
despotisms  were  everywhere  being  re-established. 

III.   BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 

Texts.  —  Works :  Poetry,  ed.  E.  H.  Coleridge  (7  vols. 
London,  1898-1904)  ;  Letters  and  Journals,  ed.  R.  E.  Proth- 
ero  (6  vols.  London,  1898-1901).  Selections,  with  essay  by 
Matthew  Arnold,  in  Golden  Treasury  Series  ;  Selections,  ed. 
F.  I.  Carpenter;  Letters,  in  Camelot  Series. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Life,  byj.  Nichol  (English 
Men  of  Letters)  ;  Life,  by  R.  Noel  (Great  Writers)  ;  Essays, 
by  T.  B.  Macaulay ;  by  W.  Hazlitt  (The  Spirit  of  the  Age). 


SELECTIONS    FROM   LORD    BYRON 

PAGE 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  .        ...        .        .        .      23 

MAZEPPA        .       .'       .       .        .        .       .       .        .       .      38 


22 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 

SELECTIONS  FROM  LORD  BYRON 

I 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON 
SONNET  ON   CHILLON 

ETERNAL  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty  !  thou  art : 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned  —  5 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  'twas  trod,  10 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !  —  May  none  those  marks  efface ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


My  hair  is  grey,  but  not  with  years,  15 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night, 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears : 
23 


24  Lord   Byron 

My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose,  20 

For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned,  and  barred  —  forbidden  fare  ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith  25 

I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling  place ;  30 

We  were  seven  —  who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ; 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field,  35 

Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed, 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ;  — 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last.  40 

II 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 

In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 

There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  grey, 

Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray, 

A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way,  45 


Selected   Poems  25 

And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 

Of  tne  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 

Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 

Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp : 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring,  50 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day,  55 

Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years  —  I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  dropped  and  died,  60 

And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

in 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 

And  we  were  three  —  yet,  each  alone  ; 

We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face,  65 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 

That  .made  us  strangers  in  our  sight : 

And  thus  together  —  yet  apart, 

Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart, 

'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth  70 

Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 

To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 


26  Lord   Byron 

With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 

Or  song  heroically  bold ;  75 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A  grating  sound,  not  full  and  free, 

As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be :  80 

It  might  be  fancy  —  but  to  me 

They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 

I  ought  to  do  —  and  did  my  best  —  85 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven  — 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved :  90 

And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day  — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) —  95 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright,  100 

And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 


Selected  Poems  27 

With  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 

And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 

Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 

Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below.  105 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 

But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 

Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 

Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 

And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank  no 

With  joy :  —  but  not  in  chains  to  pine  :  • 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine : 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer  115 

Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills.  120 

VI 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls : 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,  125 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthralls : 


28  Lord   Byron 

A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 

Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave. 

Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 

The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay :  130 

We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked  ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ;  135 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


VII 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined,  140 

I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 

It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care  :  145 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 

Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 

Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 

Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 

Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men  150 

Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 

But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 

These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb ; 


Selected  Poems  29 

My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 

Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold,  155 

Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 

The  range  of  the  stefep  mountain's  side ; 

But  why  delay  the  truth?  —  he  died. 

I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 

Nor  reach  his  dying  hand  —  nor  dead,  —  160 

Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 

To  rend  and  gnash  rny  bonds  in  twain. 

He  died  —  and  they  unlocked  his  chain, 

And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave 

Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave.  165 

I  begged  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 

His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 

Might  shine  —  it  was  a  foolish  thought, 

But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 

That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast  170 

In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer  — 

They  coldly  laughed  —  and  laid  him  there  : 

The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 

The  being  we  so  much  did  love;  175 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 

Such  Murder's  fitting  monument ! 

VIII 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face,  180 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 


30  Lord  Byron 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ;  185 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing  190 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  : 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion,  195 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread  : 

But  these  were  horrors  — this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such — but  sure  and  slow  : 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek,        ,  700 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender  —  kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb,  205 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray  ; 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright ; 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur  —  not  210 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot,  — 


Selected  Poems  31 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 
A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 
For  I  was  sunk  in  silence  —  lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ;  215 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  Nature's  feebleness, 
More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 
I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear ; 
I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ;  220 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 
Would  not  be  thus  admonished ; 
I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound  — 
I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 
And  rushed  to  him  :  —  I  found  him  not,  225 

/only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 
/only  lived,  /only  drew 
The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 
The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink,  230 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 
Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 
One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath  — 
My  brothers  —  both  had  ceased  to  breathe  ! 
I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still,  235 

Alas !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 
I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 
But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive  — 
A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 
That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so.  240 

I  know  not  why 


3  2  Lord  Byron 

I  could  not  die, 

I  had  no  earthly  hope  —  but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there  245 

I  know  not  well  —  I  never  knew  — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 
And  then  of  darkness  too : 

I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling  —  none  — 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone,  250 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 

As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  grey ; 

It  was  not  night  —  it  was  not  day ; 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light,  255 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness  —  without  a  place  ; 

There  were  no  stars  —  no  earth  —  no  time  —     259 

No  check  —  no  change  —  no  good  —  no  crime  — 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 

Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  1 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain,  —  265 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird  ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 


Selected  Poems  33 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise,  270 

And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track ; 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor  275 

Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame,  280 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree ; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me  1 
I  never  saw  its  like  before,  285 

I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seemed  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again,  290 

And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity,  295 

Sweet  bird  !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine  ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 

SELECTIONS  —  3 


34  Lord   Byron 

A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 

For  —  Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 

Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  —          300 

I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 

My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 

But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 

And  then  'twas  mortal  well  I  knew, 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown  —  305 

And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone,  — 

Lone  —  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 

Lone  —  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear,  310 

A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate ;  315 

I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 

But  so  it  was  :  —  my  broken  chain 

With  links  unfastened  did  remain, 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride  320 

Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun,  325 


Selected  Poems  35 

Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 

My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod ; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 

My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick,  330 

And  my  crushed  heart  felt  blind  and  sick. 

XII 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  pne  and  all, 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape  ;  335 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me : 
No  child  — no  sire  —  no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery  ; 

I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad,  340 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad  ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye.  345 

XIII 

I  saw  them  —  and  they  were  the  same, 

They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 

I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 

On  high  —  their  wide  long  lake  below, 

And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ;  350 


36  Lord  Byron 

I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 

O'er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush ; 

I  saw  the  white- walled  distant  town, 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down  ; 

And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,  355 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees,  360 

And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were'  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall,  365 

And  they  seemed  joyous  each  and  all ; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly ; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye,  370 

And  I  felt  troubled  —  and  would  fain' 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
.The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load  ;  375 

It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,  — 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 


Selected  Poems 


37 


XIV 


It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days  —  380 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note  — 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free ; 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where ;  385 

It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appeared  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast,  390 

These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage  —  and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made,  395 

And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race,  400 

Had  power  to  kill  —  yet,  strange  to  tell  1 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell ; 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  :  —  even  I  405 

Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


38  Lord  Byron 


11 

MAZEPPA 


Twas  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 

When  Fortune  left  the  royal  Swede  — 
Around  a  slaughtered  army  lay, 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed.  4?o 

The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 

Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 
Had  passed  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 

And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  again  — 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear  415 

And  a  more  memorable  year, 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  haughtier  name ; 
A  greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one  —  a  thunderbolt  to  all.  420 


H 

Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die  ; 

The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 

By  day  and  night  through  field  and  flood, 

Stained  with  his  own  and  subjects'  blood  ; 

For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid  :  425 

And  not  a  voice  was  heard  to  upbraid 


Selected  Poems  39 

Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 

When  Truth  had  nought  to  dread  from  Power. 

His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 

His  own  —  and  died  the  Russians'  slave.  430 

This,  too,  sinks  after  many  a  league 

Of  well-sustained,  but  vain  fatigue  ; 

And  in  the  depth  of  forests  darkling, 

The  watch-fires  in  the  distance  sparkling  — 

The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes  —  435 

A  King  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which  the  nations  strain  their  strength  ? 
They  laid  him  by  a  savage  tree, 
In  outworn  Nature's  agony  ;  44o 

His  wounds  were  stiff,  his  limbs  were  stark ; 
The  heavy  hour  was  chill  and  dark  ; 
The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 
A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid  : 
And  thus  it  was  ;  but  yet  through  all,  445 

Kinglike  the  Monarch  bore  his  fall, 
And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 
His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will : 
All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 
As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay.  450 

in 

A  band  of  chiefs  !  —  alas  !  how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinned  it ;  but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous  :  upon  the  clay 


40  Lord  Byt-on 

Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute,  455 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed ; 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade  —  460 

Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine's  Hetman,  calm  and  bold ; 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course, 
The  Cossack  prince  rubbed  down  his  horse, 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed,  465 

And  smoothed  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane, 

And  slacked  his  girth,  and  stripped  his  rein, 
And  joyed  to  see  how  well  he  fed  ; 
For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 
His  wearied  courser  might  refuse  470 

To  browse  beneath  the  midnight  dews  : 
But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 
And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board ; 
But  spirited  and  docile  too, 

Whate'er  was  to  be  done,  would  do.  475 

Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb, 
All  Tartar-like  he  carried  him ; 
Obeyed  his  voice,  and  came  to  call,    • 
And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all : 
Though  thousands  were  around,  —  and  Night,     480 
Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight,  — 
That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  follow  like  a  fawn. 


Selected   Poems  41 


IV 

This  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak, 

And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak,  485 

Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 

The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood  — 

If  still  the  powder  filled  the  pan, 

And  flints  unloosened  kept  their  lock  — 
His  sabre's  hilt  and  scabbard  felt,  490 

And  whether  they  had  chafed  his  belt ; 
And  next  the  venerable  man, 
From  out  his  havresack  and  can, 

Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock ; 
And  to  the  Monarch  and  his  men  495 

The  whole  or  portion  offered  then 
With  far  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a  banquet  would. 
And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there,  500 

To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 
And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe  ;  — 
And  then  he  said  —  "  Of  all  our  band, 
Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none  505 

Can  less  have  said  or  more  have  done 
Than  thee,  Mazeppa  !     On  the  earth 
So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 
Since  Alexanders  days  till  now, 
As  thy  Bucephalus  l  and  thou  :  510 

1  The  horse  of  Alexander  the  Great. 


42  Lord  Byron 

All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 

For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 

Mazeppa  answered  —  "  111  betide 

The  school  wherein  I  learned  to  ride  !  " 

Quoth  Charles  —  "  Old  Hetman,  wherefore  so,    515 

Since  thou  hast  learned  the  art  so  well  ? " 

Mazeppa  said  — "  'Twere  long  to  tell ; 

And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go, 

With  every  now  and  then  a  blow, 

And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe,  520 

Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease, 

Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes  : l 

And,  Sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 

And  I  will  be  the  sentinel 

Of  this  your  troop."  —  "  But  I  request."  525 

Said  Sweden's  monarch,  "  Thou  wilt  tell 

This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap, 

Perchance,  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep ; 

For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 

The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies."  530 

"  Well,  Sire,  with  such  a  hope,  I'll  track 

My  seventy  years  of  memory  back: 

I  think  'twas  in  my  twentieth  spring,  — 

Ay,  'twas,  —  when  Casimir  was  king  — 

John  Casimir,  —  I  was  his  page  535 

Six  summers,  in  my  earlier  age  : 

A  learned  monarch,  faith  !  was  he, 

And  most  unlike  your  Majesty; 

1  The  Dnieper. 


Selected  Poems  43 

He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 

New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again;  540 

And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  diet) 

He  reigned  in  most  unseemly  quiet ; 

Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex ; 

He  loved  the  muses  and  the  Sex ; 

And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are,  545 

They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war ; 

But  soon  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 

Another  mistress  —  or  new  book  : 

And  then  he  gave  prodigious  fetes  — 

All  Warsaw  gathered  round  his  gates  550 

To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court, 

And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  princely  port 

He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 

So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one, 

Who,  being  unpensioned,  made  a  satire,  555 

And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter. 

It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes, 

Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes  ; 

Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses, 

And  signed  my  odes  '  Despairing  Thyrsis.'  $60 

There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 

A  Count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine  ; 
And  he  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  Heaven  he  had  been  sent ;  565 

He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne ; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store, 


44  Lord  Byron 

And  o'er  his  pedigree  would  pore, 

Until  by  some  confusion  led,  57C 

Which  almost  looked  like  want  of  head, 

He  thought  their  merits  were  his  own. 
His  wife  was  not  of  this  opinion ; 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years, 
Grew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion  ;  575 

And,  after  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 

To  Virtue  a  few  farewell  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two  —  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's  youth  —  some  songs,  and  dances, 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances,  580 

Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender, 
To  deck  her  Count  with  titles  given, 
Tis  said,  as  passports  into  Heaven  ; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast  585 

Of  these,  who  have  deserved  them  most. 


's  I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then  ; 

At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say, 
That  there  were  few,  or  boys  or  men, 

Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day,  590 

Of  vassal  or  of  knight's  degree, 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me  ; 
For  I  had  strength  —  youth  —  gaiety, 
A  port,  not  like  to  this  ye  see, 
But  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now ;  595 

For  Time,  and  Care,  and  War,  have  ploughed 


Selected  Poems  45 

My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow ; 

And  thus  I  should  be  disavowed 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday  ;  600 

This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had  ta'en  my  features  for  his  page : 
With  years,  ye  know,  have  not  declined 
My  strength  —  my  courage  —  or  my  mind, 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be  605 

Telling  old  tales  beneath  a  tree, 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 

But  let  me  on  :  Theresa's  form  — 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now, 
Between  me  and  yon  chestnut's  bough,  610 

The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm  ; 
And  yet  I  find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well : 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye, 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighbourhood  615 

Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky ; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light, 
Like  the  first  moonrise  of  midnight ; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream,  620 

Which  seemed  to  melt  to  its  own  beam ; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire, 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire, 
And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high, 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die.  625 

A  brow  like  a  midsummer  lake, 


46  Lord   Byron 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 
When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make, 

And  Heaven  beholds  her  face  within. 
A  cheek  and  lip  —  but  why  proceed  ?  630 

I  loved  her  then,  I  love  her  still ; 
And  such  as  I  am,  love  indeed 

In  fierce  extremes  —  in  good  and  ill. 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage, 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age  635 

With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, — 
As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

VI 

"  We  met  —  we  gazed  —  I  saw,  and  sighed  ; 

She  did  not  speak,  and  yet  replied  ; 

There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs  640 

We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines  — 

Involuntary  sparks  of  thought, 

Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'erwrought, 

And  form  a  strange  intelligence, 

Alike  mysterious  and  intense,  645 

Which  link  the  burning  chain  that  binds, 

Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minds ; 

Conveying,  as  the  electric  wire, 

We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire. 

I  saw,  and  sighed  —  in  silence  wept,  650 

And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 

Until  I  was  made  known  to  her, 

And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 

Without  suspicion  —  then,  even  then, 


Selected   Poems  47 

I  longed,  and  was  resolved  to  speak  ;  655 

But  on  my  lips  they  died  again, 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak, 
Until  one  hour.  —  There  is  a  game, 

A  frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day ;  660 

It  is  —  I  have  forgot  the  name  — 
And  we  to  this,  it  seems,  were  set, 
By  some  strange  chance,  which  I  forget : 
I  recked  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  be  665 

So  near  to  hear,  and  oh  !  to  see 
The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most. 
I  watched  her  as  a  sentinel, 
(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well  1) 

Urftil  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was,  670 

That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain  ;  but  still 
Played  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 
Yet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not  675 

That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass, 
Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there, 
That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair ;  680 

And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth, 

All  incoherent  as  they  were  ; 
Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 
But  yet  she  listened  —  'tis  enough  — 


48  Lord   Byron 

Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice  ;  685 

Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice  — 
And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 

VII 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again  — 

They  tell  me,  Sire,  you  never  knew 

Those  gentle  frailties  ;  if  'tis  true,  690 

I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain  ; 
To  you  'twould  seem  absurd  as  vain  ; 
But  all  men  are  not  born  to.reign, 
Or  o'er  their  passions,  or  as  you 
Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too.  695 

I  am  —  or  rather  was  —  a  Prince, 

A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 

Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed ; 
But  could  not  o'er  myself  evince 
The  like  control  —  But  to  resume  :  700 

I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again  ; 
In  sooth,  it  is  a  happy  doom, 

But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain.  — 
We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 

Which  led  me  to  that  lady's  bower  705 

Was  fiery  Expectation's  dower. 
My  days  and  nights  were  nothing  —  all 
Except  that  hour  which  doth  recall, 
In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age, 

No  other  like  itself:  I'd  give  710 

The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more,  and  be  a  page, 


Selected  Poems  49 

The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 

Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 

And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth,  715 

Save  Nature's  gift  of  Youth  and  Health. 

We  met  in  secret  —  doubly  sweet, 

Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 

I  know  not  that  —  I  would  have  given 

My  life  but  to  have  called  her  mine  720 

In  the  full  view  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ; 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

VIII 

"  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 

And  such  there  were  on  us  ;  the  Devil  725 

On  such  occasions  should  be  civil  — 
The  Devil !  —  I'm  loath  to  do  him  wrong, 

It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long, 

But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent —  730 

But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 
Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 
The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth  — 
I  was  unarmed  ;  but  if  in  steel, 

All  cap-a-pie  from  head  to  heel,  735 

What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do? 
'Twas  near  his  castle,  far  away 

From  city  or  from  succour  near, 
And  almost  on  the  break  of  day  ; 
I  did  not  think  to  see  another,  740 

SELECTIONS  —  4 


50  Lord  Byron 

My  moments  seemed  reduced  to  few ; 
And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 

And,  it  may  be,  a  saint  or  two, 
As  I  resigned  me  to  my  fate, 
They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate  :  745 

Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew, 
Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate.  — 
An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 
Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine  ; 
And  he  had  reason  good  to  be,  750 

But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 

An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 
Upon  his  future  pedigree  ;  • 
Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a  blot 
His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got,  755 

While  he  was  highest  of  his  line  ; 

Because  unto  himself  he  seemed 

The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deemed 
In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 
'Sdeath  !  with  a  page — perchance  a  king  760 

Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing ; 
But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page  — 
I  felt  —  but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

IX 

"  '  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  '  —  the  horse  was  brought  ! 
In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed,  765 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs ;  but  he  was  wild, 


Selected  Poems  51 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  —  770 

'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led :  775 

They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong  ; 
They  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 
Away  !  —  away  !  —  and  on  we  dash  !  — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash.  7&> 


"  Away  !  —  away !  —  My  breath  was  gone, 

I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  : 

'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 

And  on  he  foamed  —  away  !  —  away  I 

The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose,  785 

As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 

Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 

Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 

A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 

With  sudden  wrath  I  wrenched  my  head,  790 

And  snapped  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 

Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein, 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howled  back  my  curse  ;  but  'midst  the  tread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed,  795 

Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed  : 


52  Lord  Byron 

It  vexes  me  — for  I  would  fain 

Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 

I  paid  it  well  in  after  days  : 

There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate,  800 

Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis'  weight, 

Stone  —  bar  —  moat  —  bridge  —  or  barrier  left ; 

Nor  of  its  fields  a  blade  of  grass, 

Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall, 

Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall ;  805 

And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass, 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  the  fortress  was. 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze, 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft, 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain  810 

From  off  the  scorched  and  blackening  roof 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launched,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash,  815 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 
With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  played  me  then  a  bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide,  820 

They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank : 
At  length  I  played  them  one  as  frank  — 
For  Time  at  last  sets  all  things  even  — 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 

There  never  yet  was  human  power  825 

Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven, 


Selected  Poems  53 

The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 

XI 

"  Away  !  — away !  —  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind  !  830 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind, 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  chequered  with  the  Northern  light. 
Town  —  village  —  none  were  on  our  track,  835 

But  a  wild  plain  of,  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old,  840 

No  trace  of  man.     The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  marched  o'er ; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod : 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  grey,  845 

And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by  — 

I  could  have  answered  with  a  sigh  — 
But  fast  we  fled, —  away !  —  away  !  — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray  ; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain  850 

Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane  ; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career : 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed, 


54  Lord  Byron 

He  must  have  slackened  in  his  speed  ;  855 

But  no  —  my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might, 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became : 
Each  motion  which  I  made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony  860 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 
I  tried  my  voice,  —  'twas  faint  and  low  — 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow  ; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang :  865 

Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er  ; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

XII 

"  We  neared  the  wild  wood  —  'twas  so  wide,  870 

I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side : 

'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 

That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 

Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 

And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste,  —  875 

But  these  were  few  and  far  between, 

Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green, 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strown  by  those  autumnal  eves 

That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead,  880 

Discoloured  with  a  lifeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffened  gore 


Selected  Poems  55 

Upon  the  slain  when  battle's  o'er ; 

And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 

Its  frost  o'er  every  tombless  head  —  885 

So  cold  and  stark  —  the  raven's  beak 

May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek : 

'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 

And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 

The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine  ;  890 

But  far  apart  —  and  well  it  were, 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  mine  — 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs ;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarred  with  cold ;  895 

My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind,  — 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind  ; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track, 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back,  900 

With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate,  and  hunter's  fire : 
Where'er  we  flew  they  followed  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun  ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood,  905 

At  day-break  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh !  how  I  wished  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde,  910 

And  perish  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe  1 


56  Lord  Byron 

When  first  my  courser's  race  begun, 

I  wished  the  goal  already  won  ; 

But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed  :  915 

Vain  doubt !  his  swift  and  savage  breed 

Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe  — 

Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 

Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 

Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more,  920 

Bewildered  with  the  dazzling  blast, 

Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  passed  — 

Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild  — 

All  furious  as  a  favoured  child 

Balked  of  its  wish  ;  or  —  fiercer  still  —  925 

A  woman  piqued  —  who  has  her  will ! 

XIII 

"  The  wood  was  passed  ;  'twas  more  than  noon, 

But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June ; 

Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold  — 

Prolonged  endurance  tames  the  bold  ;  930 

And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem, 

But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream, 

And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 

I  well  could  count  their  causes  o'er : 

And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath,  935 

The  tortures  which  beset  my  path  — 

Cold  —  hunger  —  sorrow  —  shame  —  distress  — 

Thus  bound  in  Nature's  nakedness  ; 

Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood 

When  stirred  beyond  its  calmer  mood,  940 


Selected  Poems  57 

And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 

The  rattle-snake's,  in  act  to  strike  — 

What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk  ? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  rolled  round,  945 

I  seemed  to  sink  upon  the  ground  ; 

But  erred  —  for  I  was  f astly  bound. 

My  heart  turned  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore, 

And  throbbed  awhile,  then  beat  no  more  : 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel ;  950 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes, 

Which  saw  no  farther.     He  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died, 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride.  955 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ;  but  could  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below  : 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 

When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er  thee,  960 

At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 
My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when  965 

Fever  begins  upon  the  brain  ; 
But  soon  it  passed,  with  little  pain, 

But  a  confusion  worse  than  such : 

I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much, 
Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again ;  97° 


58  Lord  Byron 

And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  e'er  we  turn  to  dust ! 
No  matter  !     I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death's  face  —  before  —  and  now. 

xiv  • 

"  My  thoughts  came  back.     Where  was  I  ?    Cold,  975 
And  numb,  and  giddy :  pulse  by  pulse 

Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 

And  throb  by  throb,  —  till  grown  a  pang 
Which  for  a  moment  would  convulse, 
My  blood  reflowed,  though  thick  and  chill ;          980 

My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang, 
My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 

My  sight  returned,  though  dim  ;  alas  1 

And  thickened,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 

Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh  ;  985 

There  was  a  gleam  too  of  the  sky, 

Studded  with  stars  ;  —  it  is  no  dream  ; 

The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream  ! 

The  bright  broad  river's  gushing  tide 

Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide,  990 

And  we  are  half-way,  struggling  o'er 

To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 

And  with  a  temporary  strength 

My  stiffened  limbs  were  rebaptized.  995 

My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 

And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 

And  onward  we  advance ! 


Selected  Poems  59 

We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A  haven  I  but  little  prized,  1000 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 
And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 
How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 
I  could  not  tell ;  I  scarcely  knew  1005 

If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 

xv 

"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 
The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 

Up  the  repelling  bank.  1010 

We  gain  the  top  :  a  boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 

And  onward,  onward,  onward  —  seems, 

Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 

To  stretch  beyond  the  sight ;  1015 

And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 

Or  scattered  spot  of  dusky  green, 
In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 
As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right : 

But  nought  distinctly  seen  1020 

In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate  ; 
No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a  hospitable  star  ; 

Not  even  an  ignis-fatuus  l  rose  1025 

1  Will  o'  the  wisp. 


60  Lord  Byron 

To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes  : 
That  very  cheat  had  cheered  me  then ! 

Although  detected,  welcome  still, 

Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 
Of  the  abodes  of  men.  1030 

XVI 

"  Onward  we  went  —  but  slack  and  slow  ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

All  feebly  foaming  went : 

A  sickly  infant  had  had  power  1035 

To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour ! 

But,  useless  all  to  me, 
His  new-born  tameness  nought  availed  — 
My  limbs  were  bound  ;  my  force  had  failed, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free.  1040 

With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied, 

But  still  it  was  in  vain  ; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er,  1045 

Which  but  prolonged  their  pain. 
The  dizzy  race  seemed  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won  : 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun  — 

How  slow,  alas  !  he  came  !  1050 

Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  grey 
Would  never  dapple  into  day, 
How  heavily  it  rolled  away  1 


Selected   Poems  6 1 

Before  the  eastern  flame 

Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars,  1055 

And  called  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 
And  filled  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII 

"  Uprose  the  sun  ;  the  mists  were  curled 

Back  from  the  solitary  world  1060 

Which  lay  around  —  behind  —  before. 

What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 

Plain  —  forest  —  river  ?     Man  nor  brute, 

Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 

Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil  —  1065 

No  sign  of  travel,  none  of  toil  — 

The  very  air  was  mute : 

And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 

Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice  was  borne 

From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  werst,  1070 

Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 

The  weary  brute  still  staggered  on  ; 

And  still  we  were  —  or  seemed  —  alone  : 

At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 

Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh,  1075 

From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 

Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 

No,  no  !     From  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop  ;  I  see  them  come  ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  !  1080 

I  strove  to  cry  —  my  lips  were  dumb ! 


62  Lord  Byron 

The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 

But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 

A  thousand  horse,  and  none  to  ride  1 

With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane,  1085 

Wide  nostrils  never  stretched  by  pain, 

Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 

And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 

And  flanks  unscarred  by  spur  or  rod, 

A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free,  1090 

Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ! 
The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet,  1095 

A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answered,  and  then  fell ! 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done  !  noo 

On  came  the  troop  —  they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong. 
They  stop  —  they  start  —  they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there,  1105 

Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seemed  the  Patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair  mo 

Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 


Selected  Poems  63 

They  snort  —  they  foam  —  neigh  —  they  swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair,  1115 

Linked  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me  —  and  there  we  lay,  1120 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 
I  little  deemed  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

"  And  there  from  morn  to  twilight  bound, 

I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round,  1125 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 

My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 

In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind, 

That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resigned 

To  that  which  our  foreboding  years  1130 

Present  the  worst  and  last  of  fears  : 

Inevitable  —  even  a  boon, 

Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon, 

Yet  shunned  and  dreaded  with  such  care, 

As  if  it  only  were  a  snare  1135 

That  Prudence  might  escape  : 
At  times  both  wished  for  and  implored, 
At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword, 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes,  1140 


64  Lord  Byron 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revelled  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure, 
Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he       .  1145 

Whose  heritage  was  Misery  : 
For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new, 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  leave  ; 
And,  save  the  future,  (which  is  viewed  1150 

Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  good, 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued,) 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve  : 
The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end, 
And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend,     1155 
Appears,  to  his  distempered  eyes, 
Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all, 
Repaid  his  pangs,  repaired  his  fall ;  1160 

To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years, 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour ;  1165 

To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule  — to  shine  —  to  smite  —  to  save  — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave  ? 


Selected  Poems  65 

XVIII 

"  The  sun  was  sinking  —  still  I  lay 

Chained  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed  !       1170 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay  ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need, 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed. 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun  1175 

I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly, 
Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 

Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
He  flew,  and  perched,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before  ;  1180 

I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit, 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  have  smote,  but  lacked  the  strength  ; 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand,  1185 

The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise^ 
Which  scarcely  could  be  called  a  voice, 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. 
I  know  no  more  —  my  latest  dream 

Is  something  of  a  lovely  star  1190 

Which  fixed  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 
And  of  the  cold  —  dull  —  swimming  —  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 

And  then  subsiding  back  to  death,  1195 

And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
SELECTIONS —  tj 


66  Lord  Byron 

A  little  thrill  —  a  short  suspense, 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  crossed  my  brain  — 
A  gasp  —  a  throb  —  a  start  of  pain,  1200 

A  sigh  —  and  nothing  more. 

XIX 

"  I  woke  —  where  was  I  ?  —  Do  I  see 

A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 

And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 

Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  ?  1205 

Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 

And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 

That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  my  former  trance  1210 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-haired,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall : 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought ;  1215 

For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be,  —  1220 

But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast : 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unsealed, 


Selected  Poems  67 

She  smiled  —  and  I  essayed  to  speak,  1225 

But  failed  —  and  she  approached,  and  made 

With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free  ;  1230 

And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smoothed  the  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers  —  ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet  1  1235 

Even  music  followed  her  light  feet ;  — 

But  those  she  called  were  not  awake, 
And  she  went  forth ;  but,  ere  she  passed, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast, 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say,  1240 

That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return  :  —  while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone.  1245 

xx 

"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire  — 

What  need  of  more?  —  I  will  not  tire 

With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 

Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 

They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain,  1250 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut, 
They  brought  me  into  life  again  — 


68  Lord   Byron 

Me  —  one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain,  1255 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound  —  naked  —  bleeding  —  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne,  — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess? 

Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair  1  1260 

To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank,  —  and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  for  a  river 

As  I  shall  yield  when  safely  there.  1265 

Comrades,  good  night    "  —  The  Hetman  threw 

His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 

With  leafy  couch  already  made  — 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene'er  1270 

The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where : 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. — 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wondered  not,  — 

The  King  had  been  an  hour  asleep !  1275 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 
I.   LIFE 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  Lake  Poet  and  Laureate  of 
England,  has  told  his  own  story,  and  described  the 
growth  of  his  mind,  in  the  poem  called  The  Prelude. 
If  you  have  read  this,  you  know  pretty  thoroughly  what 
kind  of  man  he  was,  what  sort  of  life  he  led,  where  .he 
went,  and  what  he  did,  and  saw,  and  felt,  and  thought. 
The  remaining  facts  in  his  biography  are  few  and 
simple. 

Some  of  these  he  has  recorded  for  us  in  the  memoirs 
which  he  dictated  to  his  nephew,  a  former  bishop  of 
Lincoln.  "  I  was  born,"  he  said,  "  at  Cockermouth, 
in  Cumberland,  on  April  yth,  1770,  the  second  son  of 
John  Wordsworth,  attorney-at-law.  .  .  .  My  mother  was 
Anne,  only  daughter  of  William  Cookson,  mercer,  of 
Penrith.  .  .  .  My  grandfather  was  the  first  of  the  name 
of  Wordsworth  who  came  into  Westmoreland.  .  .  .  He 
was  descended  from  a  family  who  had  been  settled  at 
Peniston,  in  Yorkshire,  .  .  .  probably  before  the  Nor- 
man Conquest.  .  .  .  The  time  of  my  infancy  and  early 
boyhood  was  passed  partly  at  Cockermouth,  and  partly 
with  my  mother's  parents  at  Penrith,  where  my  mother, 

"he  year  1778,  died  of  a  decline.  .  .  .  My  father 
69 


jo  William   Wordsworth 

never  recovered  his  usual  cheerfulness  of  mind  after 
this  loss,  and  died  when  I  was  in  my  fourteenth  year,  a 
school-boy,  just  returned  from  Hawkshead,  whither  I 
had  been  sent  with  my  elder  brother  Richard,  in  my 
ninth  year. 

"  I  remember  my  mother  only  in  some  few  situations, 
one  of  which  was  her  pinning  a  nosegay  to  my  breast, 
when  I  was  going  to  say  the  catechism  in  the  church. 
.  .  .  She  once  said  .  .  .  that  the  only  one  of  her  five 
children  about  whose  future  life  she  was  anxious  was 
William  ;  and  he,  she  said,  would  be  remarkable,  either 
for  good  or  for  evil.  The  cause  of  this  was,  that  I  was 
of  a  stiff,  moody,  and  violent  temper  ;  so  much  so  that 
I  remember  going  into  the  attics  of  my  grandfather's 
house  at  Penrith,  upon  some  indignity  having  been  put 
upon  me,  with  the  intention  of  destroying  myself  with 
one  of  the  foils,  which  I  knew  was  kept  there.  I  took 
the  foil  in  my  hand,  but  my  heart  failed  me." 

In  spite  of  this  anecdote,  it  is  certain  that  Wordsworth, 
as  a  boy,  was  not  at  all  morose  or  given  to  brooding. 
Of  his  early  days  at  school  he  had  "  little  to  say,  but 
that  they  were  very  happy  ones  "  ;  he  would  have  us 
believe  that  his  happiness  lay  in  being  free  to  read 
whatever  books  he  liked  ;  but  we  know,  better  than  he 
could  have  told  us,  that  he  was  not  the  sort  of  boy  who 
stays  apart,  by  himself,  with  his  head  in  a  book.  Some 
poets,  like  Thomas  Gray,  have  been  of  that  sort,  —  shy 
and  sickly  boys  at  school,  writing  Latin  verses  instead 
of  playing  cricket.  Wordsworth,  however,  played  V/ 
the  games  and  had  all  the  fun  with  the  other 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


SELECTIONS      FROM 
WORDSWORTH 


SHE  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam 'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 
85 


86  William  Wordsworth 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death  : 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will,  25 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann'd 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 

And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel-light.  30 

• 

II 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove ; 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  35 

Half-hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
—  Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ;  40 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me  ! 

Ill 

I  travelPd  among  unknown  men 
In  lands  beyond  the  sea ; 


Selected   Poems  87 

Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then  45 

What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream  1 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more.  50 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire ; 
And  she  I  cherish'd  turn'd  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  show'd,  thy  nights  conceal'd       55 

The  bowers  where  Lucy  play'd ; 
And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 

That  Lucy's  eyes  survey 'd. 

IV 
THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATURE 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  ; 

Then  Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower  60 

On  earth  was  never  sown  : 

This  Child  I  to  myself  wiU  take ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be  65 

Both  law  and  impulse  :  and  with  me 
The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 


88  William  Wordsworth 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain.  70 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 

That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 

And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 

And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm  75 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Ev'n  in  the  motions  of  the  storm  80 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place  85 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

.    "  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height,  90 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell/' 


Selected  Poems  89 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  The  work  was  done  —        95 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene ; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be.  100 


A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force  ;  105 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  ; 
RolPd  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

VI 
LUCY  GRAY 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray : 

And  when  I  cross'd  the  wild,  no 

I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 

The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew  ; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 

The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew  115 

Beside  a  human  door  ! 


90  William  Wordsworth 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 

The  hare  upon  the  green ; 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 

Will  never  more  be  seen.  120 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night  — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  Father  !  will  I  gladly  do  :  125 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon  — 

The  minster-clock l  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon  !  " 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 

And  snapp'd  a  faggot-band  ;  130 

He  plied  his  work ;  —  and  Lucy  took 

The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe : 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow,  135 

That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  : 

She  wander'd  up  and  down  ; 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb : 

But  never  reach'd  the  town.  i4c 

1  A  clock  in  a  church-tower. 


Selected   Poems  91 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide  ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood  145 

That  overlook'd  the  moor ; 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood 

A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept  —  and,  turning  homeward,  cried 
"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet !  "  150 

—  When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  track'd  the  footmarks  small ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge,         155 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall : 

And  then  an  open  field  they  cross'd : 

The  marks  were  still  the  same ; 

They  track'd  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came :  160 

They  follow'd  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank ; 
And  further  there  were  none  ! 


92  William  Wordsworth 

—  Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day  165 

She  is  a  living  child  ; 

That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind  ;  170 

And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


VII 
To  A  DISTANT  FRIEND 

Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Is  thy  love  a  plant 

Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 

Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ?  175 

Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant, 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care  — 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare.  180 

Speak !  —  though   this  soft   warm  heart,  once   free  to 

hold 

A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 

Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with  snow 

'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine  —  185 

Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  "end  may  know  ! 


Selected  Poems  93 

< 

VIII 
DESIDERIA 

Surprized  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  wind  — 

I  turn'd  to  share  the  transport  —  Oh  !  with  whom 

But  Thee  —  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 

That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ?  190 

Love,  faithful  love  recalled  thee  to  my  mind — 
But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?     Through  what  power 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss  !  —  That  thought's  return 
Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore  196 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more ; 

That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 

Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore.  200 

IX 
ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 

O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou  who  art  victory  and  law  205 

When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 


94  William  Wordsworth 

% 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth  210 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced  215 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security.  220 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Ev'n  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  : 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried,  225 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr'd  230 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 


Selected  Poems  95 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  control,  235 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 
Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tires  ; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name  ; 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  240 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds,  245 

And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend  250 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 
Oh  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ;  255 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live. 


96  William  Wordsworth 


ENGLAND  AND  SWITZERLAND,  1802 

Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  Sea, 

One  of  the  Mountains  ;   each  a  mighty  voice  : 

In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 

They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  !  260 

There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Thou  fought'st  against  him,  — but  hast  vainly  striven  : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

—  Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft ;         265 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left  — 
For,  high-souPd  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  Thee  !  270 

XI 

ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN  REPUBLIC 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West ;  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 

She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free ;  275 

No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 


Selected  Poems  97 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay, —          280 

Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  ^ath  reach  Jd  its  final  day  : 
Men  are  we,  and  tnust  grieve  when  even  the  shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  pass'd  away. 


XII 
LONDON,  1802 

O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look  285 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show ;  mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom  !  —  We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest ;  290 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 

This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore : 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more :  295 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

SELECTIONS  —  7 


98  William  Wordsworth 

XIII 

THE  SAME 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour : 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen  300 

Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  arid  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  : 

Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ;  305 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea, 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free ; 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way  310 

In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

XIV 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  nations  ;  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert       315 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  —  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  Country !  —  am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed.  320 


Selected  Poems  99 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind,  325 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child ! 

XV 

SIMON  LEE  THE  OLD  HUNTSMAN 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 

Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hallj 

An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, — 

Tis  said  he  once  was  tall.  33o 

Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 

A  running  huntsman  merry  ; 

And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 

Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound,        335 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee, 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage  ;  340 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind  ; 


roo  William   Wordsworth 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done  345 

He  reel'd  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices  ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices.  35o 

But  oh  the  heavy  change  !  — bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends  and  kindred,  see  ! 

Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty  :  — 

His  master's  dead,  and  no  one  now  355 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ; 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead ; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry,  360 

Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick ; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one,  — 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall,  365 

Upon  the  village  common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 

Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 

A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 

Are  poorest  of  the  poor.  370 

This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 

Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger  ; 


Selected   Poems  101 

But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no 'longer? 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side,  375 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do  ; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labour  could  not  wean  them,  380 

Tis  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 

For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more          385 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 

My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related.  390 

O  Reader  !  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

O  gentle  Reader  !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  every  thing. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short,  395 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it : 

It  is  no  tale  ;  but,  should  you  think, 

Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 

This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could  400 


IO2  William  Wordsworth 

To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree. 

A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 

The  mattock  totter'd  in  his  hand ; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavour 

That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree  405 

He  might  have  work'd  for  ever. 

*  You're  overtask'd,  good  Simon  Lee, 

Give  me  your  tool,'  to  him  I  said ; 

And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 

Received  my  proffer'd  aid.  410 

I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 

The  tangled  root  I  sever'd, 

At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 

And  vainly  had  endeavour'd. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought,  415 

And  thanks  and  praises  seem'd  to  run 

So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 

They  never  would  have  done. 

—  I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deed 

With  coldness  still  returning  ;  420 

Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 

Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

XVI 

A  LESSON 

There  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks  like  many  more  from  cold  and  rain, 
And  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine,     425 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  'tis  out  again  ! 


Selected  Poems  103 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm, 

Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distrest, 

Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm 

In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  thing  at  rest.  430 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I  past, 
And  recognized  it,  though  an  alter'd  form, 
Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast, 
And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 

I  stopp'd  and  said,  with  inly-mutter'd  voice,  435 

'  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold ; 
This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 
But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

*  The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 
It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay ;  440 

Stiff  in  its  members,  wither'd,  changed  of  hue/  — 
And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  grey. 

To  be  a  prodigal's  favourite  —  then,  worse  truth, 

A  miser's  pensioner  —  behold  our  lot ! 

O  Man  !  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth  445 

Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not ! 

XVII 
THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 

Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 

Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone ! 

Or  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed,  450 


104  William  Wordsworth 

Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same 
That  I  may  rest ;  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 

Seven  years,  alas  !  to  have  received 

No  tidings  of  an  only  child  —  455 

To  have  despair'd,  have  hoped,  believed, 

And  been  for  ever  more  beguiled,  — 

Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss  ! 

I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss ; 

Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  ?  460 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 

An  object  beauteous  to  behold  ; 

Well  born,  well  bred  ;  I  sent  him  forth 

Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace  465 

As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base ; 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  !  little  doth  the  young-one  dream 

When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 

What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream  470 

Heard  by  his  mother  unawares  ! 

He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess ; 

Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress ; 

But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me  !  no,  I  suffer'd  long  475 

From  that  ill  thought ;  and  being  blind 
Said  '  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong : 
Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 


Selected  Poems  105 

As  ever  breathed  : '  and  that  is  true ; 

I've  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew,  480 

Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 

Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 

Oh  !  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door  ; 

Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain :  485 

I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes  ; 

And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 

Alas !  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 

And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight ;        490 

They  mount  —  how  short  a  voyage  brings 

The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight ! 

Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea ; 

And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 

All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee.  495 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan 
Maim'd,  mangled  by  inhuman  men  ; 
Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 

Or  hast  been  summon'd  to  the  deep  500 

Thou,  thou,  and  all  thy  mates  to  keep 
An  incommunicable1  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts  :  but  none  will  force 

Their  way  to  me  ;  'tis  falsely  said 

That  there  was  ever  intercourse  505 

1  Beyond  the  reach  of  human  intercourse. 


io6  William  Wordsworth 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 
For  surely  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds  ;  510 

I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass  ; 

The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 

Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass : 

I  question  things,  and  do  not  find 

One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind ;  515 

And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Beyond  participation  lie 

My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief : 

If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh 

They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief.  520 

Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 

Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end  I 

I  have  no  other  earthly  friend. 

XVIII 
To  THE  SKYLARK 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  I 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ?  525 

Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 

Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 

Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 

Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still  1 


Selected  Poems  107 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond  530 

Mount,  daring  warbler  1  —  that  love-prompted  strain 
—  'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond  — 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  Spring.  53$ 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine ; 

Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam —  540 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home. 

XIX 
THE  GREEN  LINNET 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 

Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 

With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  Spring's  unclouded  weather,  545 

In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 

To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat ! 

And  flowers  and  birds  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  mark'd,  the  happiest  guest  550 

In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest : 
Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 
In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion  I 


io8  William  Wordsworth 

Thou,  Linnet !  in  thy  green  array 

Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day  555 

Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May ; 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers, 

Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 

Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers,  560 

Art  sole  in  thy  employment ; 

A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  air, 

Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 

Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair ; 

Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment.  565 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees 

That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 

Behold  him  perch'd  in  ecstasies 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 

There  !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings  570 

Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 

Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives  — 

A  brother  of  the  dancing  leaves  ;  575 

Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes ; 

As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 

He  mock'd  and  treated  with  disdain 

The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign,  580 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 


Selected  Poems  109 

XX 

To  THE  CUCKOO 

0  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice  : 

0  Cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ?  585 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale  590 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring  I 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me  595 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listen 'd  to  ;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways  600 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 

Still  long'd  for,  never  seen !  605 


no  William  Wordsworth 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird  !  the  earth  we  pace  610 

Again  appears  to  be 

An  unsubstantial,  faery  place, 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  1 


XXI 

UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,  SEPT.  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by         615 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning :  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky,  —  620 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep ! 

The  river  glideth  at  its  own  sweet  will :  625 

Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  1 


Selected  Poems  1 1 1 

XXII 

COMPOSED  AT  NEIDPATH    CASTLE,  THE    PROPERTY  OF 
LORD  QUEENSBERRY,  1803 

Degenerate  Douglas  !  oh,  the  unworthy  lord  ! 
Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far  please 
And  love  of  havoc,  (for  with  such  disease  630 

Fame  taxes  him,)  that  he  could  send  forth  word 

To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 

A  brotherhood  of  venerable  trees, 

Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like  these, 

Beggar'd  and  outraged  !  —  Many  hearts  deplored   635 

The  fate  of  those  old  trees ;  and  oft  with  pain 

The  traveller  at  this  day  will  stop  and  gaze 

On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed : 

For  sheltered  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 

And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed,      640 

And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 

XXIII 

ADMONITION  TO  A  TRAVELLER 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye  1 
—  The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath  stirr'd  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  1  645 


ill  William  Wordsworth 

But  covet  not  the  abode ;  forbear  to  sigh 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look ; 
Intruders  —  who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf  with  harsh  impiety. 

—  Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were  thine,        650 
Even   thine,  though  few   thy  wants !  —  Roof,  window, 

door, 
The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 

The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine: 

Yea,  all  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 

On  which  it  should  be  touch'd,  would  melt  away !       655 

XXIV 
To  THE  HIGHLAND  GIRL  OF  INVERSNEYDE 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head : 

And  these  gray  rocks,  that  household  lawn,         660 

Those  trees  —  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn, 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake, 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode  ;  665 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 

Like  something  fash  ion 'd  in  a  dream ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  1 


Selected  Poems  113 

But  O  fair  Creature  !  in  the  light  670 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

Thee  neither  know  I  nor  thy  peers :  .        675 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  fill'd  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 

For  thee  when  I  am  far  away ; 

For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face 

In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace  680 

Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 

Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 

Here  scatter'd,  like  a  random  seed, 

Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 

The  embarrass 'd  look  of  shy  distress,  685 

And  maidenly  shamefac£dness  : 

Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 

The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer  : 

A  face  with  gladness  overspread ; 

Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred ;  690 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 

Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays ; 

With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 

From  quick  and  eager  visitings 

Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach  695 

Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 

A  bondage  sweetly  brook'd,  a  strife 

That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  1 

SELECTIONS  —  8 


H4  William  Wordsworth 

So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind  —  700 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

0  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 

Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ;  705 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 

A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess  I 

But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 

More  like  a  grave  reality : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave  710 

Of  the  wild  sea :  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  1 

Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be,  715 

Thy  father  —  anything  to  thee. 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place : 
Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 

1  bear  away  my  recompense.  720 
In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 

Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes : 

Then  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir? 

I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past,  725 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 


Selected   Poems  115 

Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  Girl !   from  thee  to  part ; 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold  •  730 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  Thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all  1 


XXV 

THE  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 

Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  !  735 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself  ; 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 

Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 

And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 

O  listen  1  for  the  vale  profound  740 

Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  sands  ;  745 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 


n6  William  Wordsworth 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  750 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago  : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ?  755 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again ! 

Whatever  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work,  760 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ;  — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more.  765 

XXVI 
THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three 

years : 

Poor  Susan  has  pass'd  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her?  She  sees  770 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 


Selected  Poems  117 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripp'd  with  her  pail ;    775 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade ; 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise,     780 
And  the  colours  have  all  pass'd  away  from  her  eyes  1 

XXVII 

THE  DAFFODILS 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils,  785 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line  790 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay ; 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  :  —  795 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company  ! 


n8  William  Wordsworth 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  — but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought  ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie  800 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils.  805 

XXVIII 
To  THE  DAISY 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  Daisy  !  oft  I  talk  to  thee 

For  thou  art  worthy, 

Thou  unassuming  Common-place  810 

Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit  and  play  with  similes,  815 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising  ; 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game,  820 

While  I  am  gazing. 


Selected   Poems  119 

A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations  ;  825 

A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye  830 

Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold  ! 
A  silver  shield  with  boss 1  of  gold  835 

That  spreads  itself,  some  faery  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  — 

And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, 

Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are  840 

In  heaven  above  thee  1 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest ;  — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  !  845 

Sweet  Flower !  for  by  that  name  at  last 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 
Sweet  silent  Creature ! 
1  Knob,  or  circular  ornament. 


I2O  William  Wordsworth 

That  breath 'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air,          850 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
Of  thy  meek  nature  1 


XXIX 

YARROW  UNVISITED 

« 

1803 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 

The  mazy  Forth  unravell'd,  855 

Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelPd  ; 

And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  '  winsome  Marrow,' l 

1  Whatever  betide,  we'll  turn  aside,   *  860 

And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.' 

'  Let  Yarrow*  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own, 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling !  865 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ; 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

1  Mate. 


Selected   Poems  121 

'  There's  Gala  Water,  Leader  Haughs,  870 

Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 

And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus; 

There's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow :  875 

Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

'  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under  ? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere  880 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder.' 

—  Strange  words  they  seem'd  of  slight  and  scorn  ; 

My  True-love  sigh'd  for  sorrow, 

And  look'd  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  !  885 

*  O  green,'  said  I,  '  are  Yarrow's  holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing ! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath  890 

We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 

But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

'Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 

The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ;  895 

The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Float  double,  swan  and  shadow ! 


122  William  Wordsworth 

We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 

To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 

Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know  9oo 

There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

'  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  I 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own, 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it?  905 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow ! 

For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 

'Twill  be  another  Yarrow  I  s 

*  If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come  910 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 

Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow  915 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  ! ' 


XXX 

YARROW  VISITED 
September,  1814 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow  ?  —  This  the  stream 
Of  which  my  fancy  cherish 'd 


Selected  Poems 


123 


So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream,  920 

An  image  that  hath  perish'd  ? 

O  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  !  925 

Yet  why  ?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontroll'd  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake       930 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness  935 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit  940 

A  pensive  recollection.  - 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding  :  945 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 


William   Wordsworth 

The  Water-wraith  l  ascended  thrice, 
And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings  950 

The  haunts  of  happy  lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers  : 

And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow,  955 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  5 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day  960 

Her  delicate  creation : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy : 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decay 'd, 

And  pastoral  melancholy.  965 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 

And  rising  from  those  lofty  groves  970 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary, 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark's  towers, 

Renown'd  in  Border  story. 

1  Water-spirit. 


Selected  Poems  125 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in,  975 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in ! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there  980 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet  on  this  autumnal  day 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  !  985 

And  what  if  I  en  wreathed  my  own  ? 

'Twere  no  offence  to  reason ; 

The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see  — but  not  by  sight  alone,  990 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee ; 

A  ray  of  Fancy  still  survives  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  1 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ;  995 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 

They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish  ; 

One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine  —  1000 

Sad  thought !  which  I  would  banish, 


126  William  Wordsworth 

But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 

Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 

Will  dwell  with  me,  to  heighten  joy, 

And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow.  1005 

XXXI 
BY  THE  SEA 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea :  1010 

Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  child  !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  un touch 'd  by  solemn  thought          1015 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

XXXII 

To  SLEEP 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by  1020 

One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 


Selected  Poems  127 

I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies       1025 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep !  by  any  stealth  : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away :  1030 

Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health ! 

XXXIII 
THE  INNER  VISION 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none,         1035 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between  1040 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

—  If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse  : 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way  — 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse,  —  1045 

The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 


128  William  Wordsworth 

XXXIV 

WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 

While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts        1050 

Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran  ; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 

What  Man  has  made  of  Man.  1055 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trail'd  its  wreaths ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopp'd  and  play'd,  1060 

Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure,  — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seem'd  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 

To  catch  the  breezy  air  ;  1065 

And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 

If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 

Have  I  not  reason  to  lament  1070 

What  Man  has  made  of  Man  ? 


Selected  Poems  129 

XXXV 
RUTH  :  OR  THE  INFLUENCES  OF  NATURE 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 

Her  father  took  another  mate  ; 

And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 

A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will  1075 

Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 

In  thoughtless  freedom,  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw, 

And  music  from  that  pipe  could  draw 

Like  sounds  of  winds  and  floods  ;  1080 

Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 

As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 

An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 

She  seem'd  to  live  ;  her  thoughts  her  own  ;         1085 

Herself  her  own  delight : 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad  nor  gay ; 

And  passing  thus  the  live-long  day, 

She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a  youth  from  Georgia's  shore  —       1090 

A  military  casque  2  he  wore 

With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees  ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze 

And  made  a  gallant  crest.  1095 

1  Helmet. 

SELECTIONS — 9 


130  William   Wordsworth 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung : 

But  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue 

And  bore  a  soldier's  name  ; 

And,  when  America  was  free 

From  battle  and  from  jeopardy,  noo 

He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 

In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak : 

—  While  he  was  yet  a  boy 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun,  1105 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run 

Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  youth  !  I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he  ;  mo 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought ; 

And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought  1115 

Of  pleasure  and  of  fear  ; 

Such  tales  as,  told  to  any  maid 

By  such  a  youth,  in  the  green  shade, 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls,  a  happy  rout !  1120 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 
Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 


Selected  Poems  131 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long ; 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 

When  daylight  is  gone  down.  1125 

He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 

Their  blossoms,  through  a  boundless  range 

Of  intermingling  hues  ; 

With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 

They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers  1130 

From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 

High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head  ! 

The  cypress  and  her  spire ; 

—  Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam  1135 

Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 

To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannahs  spake, 

And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds  1140 

Of  islands,  that  together  lie 

As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 

Among  the  evening  clouds. 

1  How  pleasant,'  then  he  said,  '  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there,  1145 

In  sunshine  or  in  shade 

To  wander  with  an  easy  mind, 

And  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 

A  home  in  every  glade  ! 


132  William  Wordsworth 

1  What  days  and  what  bright  years  !     Ah  me ! 

Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee  1151 

So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss  ; 

And  all  the  while,'  said  he,  '  to  know 

That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 

On  such  an  earth  as  this  ! '  1155 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 

Fond  thoughts  about  a  father's  love, 

1  For  there,'  said  he,  '  are  spun 

Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 

That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes  1160 

Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

'  Sweet  Ruth  !  and  could  you  go  with  me 

My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride,  1165 

A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer ! 

'  Beloved  Ruth  !  '  —  No  more  he  said. 

The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 

A  solitary  tear  :  1170 

She  thought  again  —  and  did  agree 

With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

'  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right, 

We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight,  1175 

A  husband  and  a  wife. ' 


Selected  Poems  133 

Even  so  they  did ;  and  I  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink,         1180 

Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 

That,  on  those  lonesome  floods 

And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 

His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 

His  name  in  the  wild  woods.  1185 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 

This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 

And  with  his  dancing  crest 

So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 

Had  roam'd  about,  with  vagrant  bands  1190 

Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 

The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 

For  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given  1195 

So  much  of  earth  —  so  much  of  heaven, 

And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart  1200 

A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 


134  William  Wordsworth 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 

The  beauteous  forms  of  Nature  wrought,  — •   1205 

Fair  trees  and  gorgeous  flowers  ; 

The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent  ; 

The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 

Into  those  favour'd  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween  1210 

That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 

Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 

For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 

And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 

Of  noble  sentiment.  1215 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw, 

With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 

Nor  better  life  was  known  ; 

Deliberately  and  undeceived 

Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received,  1220 

And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 

Were  thus  impair'd,  and  he  became 

The  slave  of  low  desires : 

A  man  who  without  self-control  1225 

Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 

Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feign'd  delight 

Had  woo'd  the  maiden,  day  and  night 

Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn :  1230 


Selected  Poems  135 

What  could  he  less  than  love  a  maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd  — 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  ? 

Sometimes  most  earnestly  he  said, 

'  O  Ruth  !  I  have  been  worse  than  dead  ;  1275 

False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain 

Encompass'd  me  on  every  side 

When  I,  in  confidence  and  pride, 

Had  cross'd  the  Atlantic  main. 

1  Before  me  shone  a  glorious  world  1240 

Fresh  as  a  banner  bright,  unfurl'd 

To  music  suddenly : 

I  look'd  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 

And  seem'd  as  if  let  loose  from  chains 

To  live  at  liberty  1  1245 

'  No  more  of  this  —  for  now,  by  thee, 

Dear  Ruth  !  more  happily  set  free, 

With  nobler  zeal  I  burn ; 

My  soul  from  darkness  is  released 

Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east  1250 

The  morning  doth  return.' 

Full  soon  that  better  mind  was  gone  ; 

No  hope,  no  wish  remain'd,  not  one,  — 

They  stirr'd  him  now  no  more  ; 

New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give,  1255 

And  once  again  he  wish'd  to  live 

As  lawless  as  before. 


136  William  Wordsworth 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 

They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 

And  went  to  the  sea-shore  :  1260 

But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 

Deserted  his  poor  bride,  and  Ruth 

Could  never  find  him  more. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth  !  —  Such  pains  she  had 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad  1265 

And  in  a  prison  housed  ; 

And  there,  with  many  a  doleful  song 

Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  wrong 

She  fearfully  caroused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew,  1270 

Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 

Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 

—  They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell ; 

And  a  clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 

Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play.  1275 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 

There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain ; 

She  from  her  prison  fled ; 

But  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought ; 

And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought  1280 

Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again : 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 


Selected  Poems  137 

And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone,  1285 

There  did  she  rest  j  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir  1290 

The  vernal  leaves  —  she  loved  them  still, 

Nor  ever  tax'd  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  barn  her  Winter  bed  supplies ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  Summer  skies  1295 

And  Summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  has  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray !  1300 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old. 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have  !  but  less 

Of  mind,  than  body's  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold.  1305 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food 

She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 

Repairs  to  a  road-side  ; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place, 

Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace  1310 

The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 


138  William   Wordsworth 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute 

Or  thrown  away :  but  with  a  flute 

Her  loneliness  she  cheers  ; 

This  flute,  made  of  a  hemlock  stalk,  1315 

At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 

The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  have  pass'd  her  on  the  hills 

Setting  her  little  water-mills 

By  spouts  and  fountains  wild  —  1320 

Such  small  machinery  as  she  turn'd 

Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn'd,  — 

A  young  and  happy  child  ! 

Farewell !  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 

Ill-fated  Ruth  !  in  hallo w'd  mould  1325 

Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be ; 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

XXXVI 

NATURE  AND  THE  POET 

Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peek  Castle  in  a  Storm ,  painted 
by  Sir  George  Beaumont 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile !      1330 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee : 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 


Selected  Poems  139 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  I 

So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  !  1335 

Whene'er  I  look'd,  thy  image  still  was  there ; 

It  trembled,  but  it  never  pass'd  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !     It  seem'd  no  sleep, 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings : 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep  1340 

Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah  !  then  —  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream,  —  1345 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  1 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seem'd  a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years  ;  a  chronicle  of  heaven  ;  —         1351 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 

Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife ;  1355 

No  motion  but  the  moving  tide  ;  a  breeze ; 

Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made ; 


140  William  Wordsworth 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part,  1360 

A' steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betray 'd. 

So  once  it  would  have  been,  —  'tis  so  no  more ; 

I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 

A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore; 

A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul.  1365 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend !    who   would  have  been  the 
friend  1370 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 
This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend ; 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  work  !  —  yet  wise  and  well, 

Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ;  1375 

That  hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 

—  Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time  —         1380 
The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

—  Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind  ! l 

*  Mankind. 


Selected   Poems  141 

Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 

Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  'tis  surely  blind.  1385 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne  ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here :  — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

XXXVII 

GLEN-ALMAIN,  THE  NARROW  GLEN 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men,  1390 

Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  Narrow  Glen  ; 

In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 

But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one : 

He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 

Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death  ;  1395 

And  should,  methinks,  when  all  was  past, 

Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last 

Where  rocks  were  rudely  heap'd,  and  rent 

As  by  a  spirit  turbulent ; 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild, 

And  everything  unreconciled  ;  1401 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat, 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet ; 

But  this  is  calm  ;•  there  cannot  be 

A  more  entire  tranquillity.  1405 

Does  then  the  Bard  sleep  here  indeed  ? 

Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed  ? 

What  matters  it  ?  —  I  blame  them  not 

Whose  fancy  in  this  lonely  spot 


142  William   Wordsworth 

Was  moved  ;  and  in  such  way  expressed  1410 

Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 

A  convent,  even  a  hermit's  cell, 

Would  break  the  silence  of  this  Dell : 

It  is  not  quiet,  is  not  ease  ; 

But  something  deeper  far  than  these  :  1415 

The  separation  that  is  here 

Is  of  the  grave  ;  and  of  austere 

Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead: 

And,  therefore,  was  it  rightly  said 

That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race  1  1420 

Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 

XXXVIII 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  !     1425 

This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 

It  moves  us  not.  — Great  God  !     I'd  rather  be       1430 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn,  — 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn.  1435 


Selected  Poems  143 

XXXIX 

WITHIN  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint1  with  vain  expense, 
With  ill-match'd  aims  the  Architect  who  plann'd 
(Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only)  this  immense 

And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  !  1440 

—  Give  all  thou  canst;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 
Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  :  — 
So  deem'd  the  man  who  fashion'd  for  the  sense 

These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self-poised,  and  scoop'd  into  ten  thousand  cells         1445 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 

Lingering  —  and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die  ; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

• 

XL 

THE  Two  APRIL  MORNINGS 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red  1450 

Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopp'd,  he  look'd,  and  said 
*  The  will  of  God  be  done  ! ' 
1  Henry  VI. 


144  William  Wordsworth 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 

With  hair  of  glittering  grey ;  1455 

As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 

On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 

And  by  the  steaming  rills 

We  travell'd  merrily,  to  pass  1460 

A  day  among  the  hills. 

1  Our  work,'  said  I,  '  was  well  begun ; 

Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 

Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 

So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  '  1465 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop ; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
To  me  he  made  reply : 

'  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft  1470 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 

A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 

Full  thirty  years  behind. 

'  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 

Such  colours,  and  no  other,  1475 

Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn, 

Of  this  the  very  brother. 

*  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 


Selected  Poems  145 

And  to  the  church-yard  come,  stopp'd  short  1480 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

'  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 

And  then  she  sang,  —  she  would  have  been 

A  very  nightingale.  1485 

'  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more  — 
For  so  it  seem'd,  —  than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

*  And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met,  1490 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 

A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

•  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  :  1495 

To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

'  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 

E'er  tripp'd  with  foot  so  free ; 

She  seem'd  as  happy  as  a  wave  1500 

That  dances  on  the  sea. 

'  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 

Which  I  could  ill  confine ; 

I  look'd  at  her,  and  look'd  again : 

And  did  not  wish  her  mine  1 '  1505 

SELECTIONS —  IO 


146  William  Wordsworth 

—  Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 


XLI 

THE  FOUNTAIN 
A  Conversation 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue        1510 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat ;  1515 

And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

'  Now,  Matthew  ! '  said  I,  '  let  us  match 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch l          1520 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon ; 

*  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 

Sing  here  beneath  the  shade 

That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 

Which  you  last  April  made  ! '  1525 

1  A  merry  song. 


Selected   Poems  147 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  grey-hair 'd  man  of  glee  : 

'  No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears,     1530 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

'  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  1535 

How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

c  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirr'd, 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears  1540 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

'  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay : 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  wfiat  Age  takes  away, 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind.  1545 

:  The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 
The  lark  above  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

'  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage  1550 

A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 


148  William  Wordsworth 

A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free : 

'  But  we  are  press 'd  by  heavy  laws ; 

And  often,  glad  no  more,  1555 

We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

1  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 

The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, — 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth.  1561 

*  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved, 

And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 

Am  I  enough  beloved.7  1565 

'  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 
I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains  : 

'  And  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead          1570 

I'll  be  a  son  to  thee  ! ' 

At  this  he  grasp'd  my  hand  and  said, 

*  Alas  !  that  cannot  be.'  • 

—  We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side  ; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent  1573 

Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide ; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 


Selected  Poems  149 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock 

He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 

About  the  crazy  old  church-clock,  1580 

And  the  bewilder'd  chimes. 

XLII 
THE  TROSACHS 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 

But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 

Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 

That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass  1585 

Wither'd  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase^ 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 

Untouch'd,  unbreathed  upon  :  —  Thrice  happy  quest, 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray  1591 

(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May), 

The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 

That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 

Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  restl  1595 

XLIII 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 


150  William  Wordsworth 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old  1600 

Or  let  me  die ! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  : 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


XLIV 

ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  RECOL- 
LECTIONS OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight  1606 

To  me  did  seem 
ApparelPd  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ;  —  1610 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can.see  no  more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose  ;  1615 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ;  1620 

But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


Selected   Poems  151 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound,  1625 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief : 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ;  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong :          1630 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity,  1635 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ;  — 

Thou  child  of  joy 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy  ! 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call  1640 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal,1 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all.  1645 

Oh  evil  day  !    If  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning 

This  sweet  May-morning ; 
And  the  children  are  culling 

1  Crown. 


152  William   Wordsworth 

On  every  side  1650 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers  ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm :  — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 
—  But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one,  1655 

A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ?  1660 

Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting ; 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting 

And  cometh  from  afar  ;  1665 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy !  1670 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east  1675 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 


Selected  Poems  153 

1680 


At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can  1685 

To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate,  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  !  1690 

See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life,  1695 

Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral  ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song :  1700 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride  1705 

The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 


154  William  Wordsworth 

Filling  from  time  to  time  his  '  humorous  stage ' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation  1710 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind,  1715 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  Mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet !     Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 

Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find,  1720 

In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might  1725 

Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight,       1730 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 


Selected  Poems  155 

That  Nature  yet  remembers  1735 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest, 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed  1740 

Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast :  — 
—  Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings  1745 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature          1750 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprized : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day,  1755 

Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never  ;  1760 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 


156  William  Wordsworth 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather  1765 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither ; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither  — 

And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore,  1770 

And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then,  sing  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 

And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound  1 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng  1775 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight,  1780 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy  1785 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be  ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind.  1790 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  I 


Selected  Poems  157 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquish'd  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway  :  1795 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun  1800 

Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears,  1805 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


SELECTIONS    FROM   SHELLEY 


THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  Thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber-window,  Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 
The  champak  odours  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine 

0  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
175 


ij6  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

II 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden  ;  25 

Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion  ; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ;  30 

Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 

Ill 
LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 

The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever  35 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 

Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 

In  one  another's  being  mingle  — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ?  40 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdain 'd  its  brother  : 


Selected  Poems  177 

And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth,  45 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  — 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 
If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

IV 
To  THE  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night !  50 

Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear,  — 

Swift  be  thy  flight !  55 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey 

Star-inwrought ; 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out : 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land,  60 

Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  ; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone,       65 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

T  sigh'd  for  thee. 

SELECTIONS —  12 


1 78  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried  70 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 

Wouldst  thou  me?  —  And  I  replied  75 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 
Soon,  too  soon  — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 

Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon  80 

I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon  ! 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  LOVE 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  —  85 

When  the  cloud  is  scatter'd, 

The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 

Sweet  tones  are  remember 'd  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken,  90 

Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot, 

As  music  and  splendour 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 


Selected  Poems  179 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  —  95 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled,  100 

Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest ; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  endure  what  it  once  possesst. 

O  Love  !  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here,  105 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee  no 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come.  115 

VI 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 


i8o  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

One  hope  is  too  like  despair  120 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not  125 

The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar  130 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

VII 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION  NEAR  NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might :  135 

The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight  — 
The  winds',  the  birds',  the  ocean-floods'  — 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's.  140 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown ; 

I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown : 


Selected  Poems  181 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone ;  145 

The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion  — 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health,  150 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth, 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure ;          155 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround  — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ;  160 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear,  — 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air  165 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

VIII 
To  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it  170 


1 82  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire,  175 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening,  180 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven  185 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight : 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows  190 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare,  195 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over- 
flow'd. 


Selected  Poems  183 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not  200 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody  ;  — 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden,  205 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden  210 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden  215 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 
view : 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered,  220 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 


184.  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers,  225 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
I  have  never  heard  230 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chaunt 
Match'd  with  thine,  would  be  all  235 

But  an  empty  vaunt  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ?  240 

What  shapes. of  sky  or  plain  ? 

What   love   of   thine   own   kind?    what    ignorance   of 
pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance  «45 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 


Selected  Poems  185 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep  250 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter  255 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

Our   sweetest    songs    are    those  that   tell   of    saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born  260 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures  265 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  1 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness  270 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now  ! 


1 86  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

IX 

OZYMANDIAS   OF    EGYPT 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand,         275 
Half  sunk,  a  shatter'd  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  :  281 

*  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  ! ' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare,  285 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


To  A  LADY,  WITH  A  GUITAR 

Ariel  to  Miranda :  —  Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him,  who  is  the  slave  of  thee  ; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony  290 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again 

And,  too  intense,  is  turn'd  to  pain. 


Selected   Poems  187 

For  by  permission  and  command  295 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken  ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue  300 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own, 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he  305 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon 

In  her  interlunar  swoon  310 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel :  — 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  Star  of  birth 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea  315 

Of  life  from  your  nativity  :  — 

Many  changes  have  been  run 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  track'd  your  steps  and  served  your  will.    320 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remember'd  not ; 

And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  Sprite  is 

Imprison'd  for  some  fault  of  his 


1 88  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

In  a  body  like  a  grave  —  325 

From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought,  330 

Fell'd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rock'd  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past,  335 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love  :  And  so  this  tree,  — 

Oh  that  such  our  death"  may  be  !  —  34o 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar ; 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply  345 

To  all  who  question  skilfully 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own ; 

Whispering  in  enamour'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells :  350 

—  For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 


Selected  Poems  189 

And  the  many-voiced  fountains ; 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills,  355 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 

And  airs  of  evening ;  and  it  knew  360 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way : 

—  All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell  %  365 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well 

The  Spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before  370 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 

But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest  holiest  tone  375 

For  our  beloved  Friend  alone. 


XI 

THE  INVITATION 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away,  • 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 


190  .  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Which,  like  thee,  to  those  in  sorrow 

Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow  380 

To  the  rough  year  just  awake 

In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 

The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 

Through  the  winter  wandering, 

Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  morn  385 

To  hoar  February  born  ; 

Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 

It  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  the  earth, 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 

And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free,  390 

And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 

And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 

And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 

Strew 'd  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 

Making  the  wintry  world  appear  395 

Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs  — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  the  soul  need  not  repress  400 

Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day  405 

Awake  I  arise  !  and  come  away  1 


Selected  Poems  191 

To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 

To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 

Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 

Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves  410 

Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 

Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun  ; 

Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 

And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea ; 

Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets  415 

The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 

And  wind-flowers  and  violets 

Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue 

Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new ; 

When  the  night  is  left  behind  420 

In  the  deep  east,  dim  and  blind, 

And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 

And  the  multitudinous 

Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 

Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet,  425 

And  all  things  seem  only  one 

In  the  universal  Sun. 

XII 

THE  RECOLLECTION 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 

All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 

The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead :  430 

Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise ! 

Up  —  to  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 


192  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled, 

For  now  the  earth  has  changed  its  face, 

A  frown  is  on  the  heaven's  brow.  435 

We  wander'd  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam  ; 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep,  440 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  heaven  lay ; 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies  445 

Which  scatter'd  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise  ! 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude  450 

As  serpents  interlaced,  — 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own  :  455 

Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean-woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was  !  —  The  silence  there  460 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 


Selected   Poems  193 

That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  with  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness  ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew  465 

With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seem'd,  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet,  470 

A  magic  circle  traced,  — 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life  ; 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ;  —  475 

And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  form  that  fill'd  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie  480 

Under  the  forest  bough  ; 
Each  seem'd  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulf 'd  in  a  world  below  ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay,  485 

More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night 

And  purer  than  the  day  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue  490 

SELECTIONS —  13 


194  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark-green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud.  495 

Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen 
Were  imaged  in  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green : 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath  500 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast  505 

Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest ; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye  510 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
—  Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen  1  515 


Selected  Poems  195 

XIII 
To  THE  MOON 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth, — 
And  ever-changing,  like  a  joyless  eye  520 

That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 

XIV 
A  DREAM  OF  THE  UNKNOWN 

I  dream 'd  that  as  I  wander 'd  by  the  way 

Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  Spring, 

And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring  525 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  Thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets,  530 

Daisies,  those  pearl'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 

The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 


196  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears,  535 

When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colour'd  May, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain 'd  not  by  the  day ;      540 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streak'd  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  waken 'd  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge  545 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prank'd  with 
white, 

And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ;  550 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 

I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers      555 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand,  —  and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come 
That  I  might  there  present  it  —  O  !  to  Whom  ?  560 


Selected  Poems  197 

XV 
WRITTEN  AMONG  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  Misery, 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day,  565 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily,  570 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep  ;  575 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore  580 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave,  585 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 


198  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Ah,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony : 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 
My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted.  590 

—  'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 
I  stood  listening  to  the  paean  * 
With  which  the  legion 'd  rooks  did  hail 
The  Sun's  uprise  majestical : 
Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar,  595 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts  ;  and  then, —  as  clouds  of  even 
Fleck'd  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky,  —  600 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain 
Starr'd  with  drops  of  golden  rain 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale  605 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail ; 
And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still 
Round  the  solitary  hill.  610 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair ; 

1  Triumphal  hymn. 


Selected  Poems  199 

Underneath  Day's  azure  eyes,  615 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, — 

A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 

Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 

Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 

With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves.  620 

Lo !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 

Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 

On  the  level  quivering  line 

Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 

And  before  that  chasm  of  light,  625 

As  within  a  furnace  bright, 

Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 

Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 

Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 

From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean  630 

To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 

As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 

From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 

As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 

Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old.  635 

Sun-girt  City  !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here  640 

Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 


2OO  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 

From  thy  throne  among  the  waves  645 

Wilt  thou  be,  —  when  the  sea-mew 

Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 

O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 

And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 

Save  where  many  a  palace-gate  650 

With  green  sea  flowers  overgrown 

Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 

Topples  o'er  the  abandon 'd  sea 

As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 

The  fisher  on  his  watery  way  655 

Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 

Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 

Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep, 

Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep,  660 

Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 

O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Noon  descends  around  me  now : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist  665 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound,  670 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 


Selected  Poems  201 

Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  Frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet  675 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less,  680 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air  ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandall'd  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded  ;  '  685 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darken 'd  this  swift  stream  of  song,  —          690 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall,         695 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse, 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 
Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 
Leading  the  infantine  moon  700 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 


2O2  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn  705 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  remember'd  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being), 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing,  710 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  Life  and  Agony : 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee  715 

O'er  that  gulf  :  Ev'n  now,  perhaps, 
On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 
With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 
For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove ;  720 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 
May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 
Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 
In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills,  725 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 
Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 
And  the  light  and  smell  divine 
Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine, 
-  We  may  live  so  happy  there,  "      730 


Selected  Poems  203 

That  the  Spirits  of  the  Air 

Envying  us,  may  ev'n  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude : 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued  735 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval  740 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies ; 

And  the  Love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life,  745 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood  :  — 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain,  750 

And  the  Earth  grow  young  again. 


XVI 
ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red,  755 


204  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !     O  thou 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winge'd  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 

Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow  760 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 

With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere ; 

Destroyer  and  Preserver ;  Hear,  oh  hear !  765 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commo- 
tion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 
Angels  of  rain  and  lightning !  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge,  770 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 
Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  ev'n  from  the  dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height  — 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night  775 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 
Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst :  Oh  hear ! 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer-dreams     780 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 


Selected  Poems  205 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 

Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day,  785 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 

The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear         790 

The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear 

And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  Oh  hear ! 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ;  795 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 
The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  Thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 
The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven,  800 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seem'd  a  vision,  — I  would  ne'er  have  striven 
As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed  !  805 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain 'd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee  —  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  ev'n  as  the  forest  fs : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies  810 


206  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 

My  spirit !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 

Like  wither'd  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth ;  815 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish'd  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  I 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unwaken'd  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  Wind,  820 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 


XVII 

THE  POET'S  DREAM 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses,  825 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom,  830 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be  — 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  Man, 

Nurslings  of  Immortality  1 


Selected  Poems  207 

XVIII 
A  DIRGE 

Rough  wind,  that  meanest  loud  835 

Grief  too  sad  for  song ; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long ; 
Sad  storm  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods  whose  branches  stain,  840 

Deep  caves  and  dreary  main,  — 

Wail  for  the  world's  wrong  1 

XIX 

THRENOS 

O  World  !  O  Life  !  O  Time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before ;  845 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more  — Oh,  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight : 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar     850 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more  —  Oh,  never  more  ! 

XX 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory  — 


208  Percy   Bysshe  Shelley 

Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken,  855 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  Thou  art  gone, 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on.  860 


JOHN    KEATS 
I.    LIFE 

To  die  an  Immortal,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  was 
the  fate  of  John  Keats.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of 
Thomas  Keats,  head  ostler  in  a  livery  stable,  who  had 
married  his  employer's  daughter,  Elizabeth  Jennings, 
and  risen  to  be  manager  of  the  Swan-and-Hoop,  Fins- 
bury  Pavement,  London.  The  poet's  birth  at  this 
stable,  on  either  the  29th  or  the  3ist  of  October, 
1795,  is  of  almost  Biblical  dignity. 

His  parents,  who  were  not  without  means,  energy,  and 
natural  gifts,  had  ambitions  for  their  son.  Harrow  be- 
ing somewhat  beyond  them,  they  sent  him  to  a  good 
and  pleasant  school  kept  by  the  Reverend  John  Clarke 
at  Enfield.  Soon  after,  in  1804,  Thomas  Keats,  riding 
home  at  night,  fell  from  his  horse  and  was  killed. 
The  widow,  after  an  unhappy  second  marriage  and 
speedy  separation,  made  a  home  for  herself  and  her 
children  at  Edmonton.  Here,  and  at  the  Enfield 
school,  Keats  passed  a  pleasant  boyhood.  Through 
the  holidays  he  played  in  the  brooks,  caught  small 
fishes  and  kept  them  alive  in  tubs,  and  was,  as  he 
said  long  afterward,  very  fond  "  of  Goldfishes,  Tom- 
tits, Minnows,  Mice,  Ticklebacks,  Dace,  Cock  Sal- 

SELECTIONS —  14  209 


2io  John  Keats 

mons,  and  all  the  whole  tribe  of  the  Bushes  and  the 
Brooks."  At  school  he  was  a  leader,  distinguished  by 
his  good  looks,  good  nature,  and  love  of  battles.  He 
fought  both  with  and  for  his  younger,  bigger  brother 
George,  and  the  two  joined  forces  to  protect  their  frail 
junior,  Tom.  A  schoolmate  thus  remembered  the  poet : 
"  Keats  was  in  childhood  not  attached  to  books.  His 
penchant  was  for  fighting.  He  would  fight  any  one  — 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  his  brother  among  the  rest. 
It  was  meat  and  drink  to  him.  .  .  .  His  favourites 
were  few;  after  they  were  known  to  fight  readily  he 
seemed  to  prefer  them  for  a  sort  of  grotesque  and  buf- 
foon humour.  .  .  .  He  was  a  boy  whom  any  one  from 
his  extraordinary  vivacity  and  personal  beauty  might 
easily  fancy  would  become  great  —  but  rather  in  some 
military  capacity  than  in  literature.  ...  In  all  active 
exercises  he  excelled."  The  same  schoolmate,  after 
speaking  of  his  "  daring,"  his  "  violence  and  vehe- 
mence .  .  .  pugnacity  and  generosity  .  .  .  passions  of 
tears  or  outrageous  fits  of  laughter  "  —  said  that  "asso- 
ciated as  they  were  with  an  extraordinary  beauty  of 
person  and  expression,  these  qualities  captivated  the 
boys,  and  no  one  was  more  popular." 

In  his  fourteenth  year,  this  "  favourite  of  all,"  this 
"pet  prize-fighter"  with  his  "terrier  courage,"  sud- 
denly bent  all  his  forces  to  the  study  of  books,  won  all 
the  literature  prizes,  and  of  his  own  free  will  began  to 
translate  the  whole  dELneid.  His  lifelong  friend,  the 
master's  son,  Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  recalled  him  as 
reading  even  at  supper,  "  sitting  back  on  the  form  from 


Introduction  211 

the  table,  holding  the  folio  volume  of  Burnet's  History 
of  his  Own  Time  between  himself  and  the  table,  eat- 
ing his  meal  from  beyond  it."  Greek  mythology,  the 
beauty  of  ancient  fable,  became  his  long  study  and 
deep  delight. 

In  the  winter  of  1810,  however,  his  mother  died. 
Keats  had  "  sat  up  whole  nights  with  her  in  a  great 
chair,  would  suffer  nobody  to  give  her  medicine,  or 
even  to  cook  her  food,  but  himself "  ;  and  after  her 
death  "  gave  way  to  such  impassioned  and  prolonged 
grief  (hiding  himself  in  a  nook  under  the  master's 
desk)  as  awakened  the  liveliest  pity  and  sympathy  in 
all  who  saw  him."  His  guardians,  a  merchant  and  a 
tea-dealer,  soon  decided  that  he  had  been  long  enough 
at  school ;  and  when  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  with- 
drawing him  from  Enfield,  bound  him  as  apprentice 
to  a  surgeon,  a  Mr.  Hammond,  at  Edmonton.  Till  the 
autumn  of  1814,  Keats  studied  with  this  surgeon,  drove 
with  him,  and  held  his  horse  ;  but  a  quarrel  ended  their 
relation,  and  the  apprentice,  released,  went  in  his  nine- 
teenth year  to  London.  He  continued  to  study  his 
profession,  passed  with  credit  as  licentiate  at  Apothe- 
caries' Hall,  and  on  March  3,  1816,  was  appointed  a 
dresser  under  a  Mr.  Lucas,  surgeon  at  Guy's  Hospital. 
He  showed  both  knowledge  and  skill.  In  the  arbour 
at  Enfield,  however,  Cowden  Clarke  had  opened  for 
him  not  only  Spenser's  enchanted  book,  but  all  those 
western  islands  "  that  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold." 
To  Cowden  Clarke,  in  1815,  Keats  had  given  the  two 
sonnets,  Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left 


212  John  Keats 

Prison,  and  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 
Homer.  And  now  Keats,  living  with  his  brothers 
—  like  poor  Susan's  thrush,  in  "  the  vale  of  Cheap- 
side  " —  was  haunted  more  and  more  by  aspirations. 
"The  other  day,  during  the  lecture,"  he  said,  "there 
came  a  sunbeam  into  the  room,  and  with  it  a  whole 
troop  of  creatures  floating  in  the  ray,  and  I  was  off 
with  them  to  Oberon  and  fairyland."  The  falsity  of 
the  situation  weighed  on  him,  —  that  a  poet's  mind 
should  direct  a  surgeon's  hand.  "  My  last  operation 
was  the  opening  of  a  man's  temporal  artery.  I  did  it 
with  the  utmost  nicety,  but  reflecting  on  what  passed 
through  my  mind  at  the  time,  my  dexterity  seemed  a 
miracle,  and  I  never  took  up  the  lancet  again."  He 
was  becoming  friends  with  many  young  men  of  literary 
bent,  —  George  Mathew,  Newmarch,  Reynolds,  the 
painter  Haydon,  Joseph  Severn,  a  struggling  student 
of  art,  Leigh  Hunt,  the  Liberal  editor  and  poet,  and  — 
in  the  spring  of  1817  —  Shelley.  In  that  same  fortu- 
nate spring,  Keats  chose  his  career,  and  gave  the  world 
his  first  volume  of  poems. 

Popularly,  the  book  was  not  successful,  for  in  the 
public  splendour  of  Thomas  Moore,  Scott,  and  Byron,  this 
newcomer  was  lost.  Published  in  March,  his  volume 
had  already  stopped  selling,  when  Keats,  in  April, 
settled  at  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Not  at  all  disheartened, 
he  wrote  from  Carisbrooke :  "  I  find  I  cannot  do  with- 
out poetry  —  without  eternal  poetry ;  half  the  day  will 
not  do  —  the  whole  of  it.  ...  I  had  become  all  in  a 
tremble  from  not  having  written  anything  of  late.  ,  .  . 


Introduction  113 

I  shall  forthwith  begin  my  Endymion"  Wandering 
from  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  Margate  and  to  Canterbury, 
and  afterward  joining  his  brothers  in  lodgings  at 
Hampstead,  he  not  only  worked  at  Endymion,  visited 
Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Vale  of  Health,  and  made  friends 
of  Dilke,  Charles  Brown,  and  Bailey,  but  defeated  in  a 
good,  stand-up  fight  a  ruffianly  young  butcher  who  was 
caught  tormenting  a  cat.  For  a  few  weeks,  in  the 
winter  of  1817-18,  he  wrote  dramatic  criticisms  for  the 
Champion.  He  now  began  to  see  more  of  people,  and 
to  dine  out,  though  he  never  cared  for  "fashionables," 
for  wits  "  all  alike,"  who  "  say  things  which  make  one 
start  without  making  one  feel."  He  was  more  at  ease 
in  such  a  company  as  gathered  in  Haydon's  studio  at 
the  "  immortal  dinner  "  on  December  28,  1817,  where 
"  Wordsworth's  fine  intonation  as  he  quoted  Milton 
and  Virgil,  Keats's  eager  inspired  look,  Lamb's  quaint 
sparkle  of  lambent  humour  .  .  .  speeded  the  conversa- 
tion." In  conversation,  however,  Keats  did  not  shine, 
except  fitfully.  Sometimes  he  delighted  his  friends  by 
chanting  verses  "  in  his  low  tremulous  undertone  "  : 
sometimes  made  them  laugh  with  clever  but  kindly 
mimicry ;  more  often  he  stayed  apart  in  the  window- 
seat,  listening,  or  with  his  golden-brown  head  sunk  in 
thought. 

In  the  winter  of  1818  he  saw  much  of  Hunt,  and 
something  of  Shelley,  with  both  of  whom  he  competed 
in  writing  a  sonnet  on  the  River  Nile.  Meantime,  he 
was  writing  Isabella,  the  lines  on  Robin  Hood,  and  the 
sonnets  beginning  "  Chief  of  organic  numbers  "  —  "  O 


214  John   Keats 

golden-tongued  Romance  "  —  and  "  When  I  have  fears 
that  I  may  cease  to  be."  In  the  spring  appeared  his 
first  great  work,  Endymion.  The  preface  to  this  poem 
will  show  that  Keats  —  like  Shakespeare,  "  desiring  this 
man's  art  and  that  man's  scope  "  —  had  both  true  am- 
bition and  true  modesty.  "  It  is  just,"  he  wrote,  "  that 
this  youngster  (Endymiori)  should  die  away ;  a  sad 
thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not  some  hope  that  while  it  is 
dwindling  I  may  be  plotting  and  fitting  myself  for 
verses  fit  to  live." 

When  he  made  this  brave  announcement,  Keats  had 
barely  three  years  of  life  before  him.  You  have  now 
read  the  story  of  his  happy  years  ;  we  shall  not  dwell  on 
the  unhappy.  By  the  end  of  June,  1818,  his  brother 
George  had  married  and  emigrated  to  America  ;  by  early 
December,  Tom  Keats,  the  youngest  and  frailest  of  the 
three,  was  released  by  death,  after  a  long  suffering 
which  the  poet  had  outwatched  with  heroic  tenderness. 
In  the  meantime,  through  July,  Charles  Brown  had 
taken  Keats  on  a  walking  tour  through  Scotland,  —  a 
fatal  tour :  the  sombre  North  chilled  and  rebuked  the 
poet's  genius  ; ' hardship  and  exposure  broke  his  health, 
and  sowed  mortal  seeds.  The  brutal  critics  of  Black- 
wood's  and  the  Quarterly  —  who  cried  out  "back  to 
the  shop,  Mr.  John,  stick  to  plasters,  pills,  ointment 
boxes,"  and  who  called  his  poetry  "  calm,  settled,  .  .  . 
drivelling  idiocy "  —  were  attacking  a  foredoomed 
man.  When  Keats  met  Coleridge  by  chance  in  a 
Highgate  lane,  the  truth  was  already  perceptible. 
11  After  he  had  left  us  a  little  way,"  wrote  the  great, 


Introduction  215 

dark  poet  of  the  supernatural,  "  he  ran  back  and  said, 
*  Let  me  carry  away  the  memory,  Coleridge,  of  having 
pressed  your  hand.'  'There  is  death  in  that  hand,'  I 
said,  when  Keats  was  gone." 

The  hand  spoke  truly,  for  in  this  brave  and  beautiful 
spirit,  death  and  immortality  now  contended.  And  to 
the  fever  of  this  conflict,  after  his  meeting  with  Fanny 
Brawne  in  1818,  was  added  the  hopeless  love  of  a  man 
without  health  and  without  prospects.  But  even  in 
sickness  and  distress,  his  genius  continued  to  flame. 
In  January,  1819,  he  finished  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  > 
and  began  The  Eve  of  St.  Mark;  in  February,  the 
odes  On  Indolence  and  On  a  Grecian  Urn,  and  the  lines 
which  begin  "  Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth  "  ;  by  April 
15,  the  ode  To  Psyche.  A  few  days  later  he  found 
that  a  nightingale  was  building  her  nest  in  Brown's 
garden.  "  Keats  felt,"  said  Brown,  "  a  tranquil  and 
continual  joy  in  her  song;  and  one  morning  he  took 
his  chair  from  the  breakfast  table  to  the  grass-plot 
under  a  plum,  where  he  sat  for  two  or  three  hours. 
When  he  came  into  the  house,  I  perceived  he  had  some 
scraps  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and  these  he  was  quietly 
thrusting  behind  the  books.  On  inquiry,  I  found  those 
scraps,  four  or  five  in  number,  contained  his  poetic  feel- 
ing on  the  song  of  our  nightingale.  The  writing  was  not 
well  legible ;  and  it  was  difficult  to  arrange  the  stanzas 
on  so  many  scraps.  With  his  assistance  I  succeeded,  and 
this  was  his  Ode  to  a  Nightingale."  At  about  this  time 
Keats  had  finished  Hyperion  ;  in  the  same  spring  or  the 
following  summer,  he  wrote  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci; 


216  John  Keats 

and  in  the  autumn,  during  the  "  last  good  days  of  his 
life,"  composed  Lamia,  the  tragedy  of  Otho,  and  his 
last  ode,  To  Autumn.  The  list  closes  with  two  frag- 
ments, the  Cap  and  Bells  and  the  Vision,  and  with  the 
sonnet  written  on  board  ship  in  his  last  voyage, — 
Bright  star,  would  I  were  as  steadfast  as  thou  art. 

What  remains  you  can  best  learn  from  his  friends' 
words  and  his  own.  One  bitterly  cold  night,  February  3, 
1820,  Keats  came  home'  to  Brown's  house  in  a  high 
fever.  "I  entered  his  chamber,"  said  Brown,  "as  he 
leapt  into  bed.  On  entering  the  cold  sheets,  before  his 
head  was  on  the  pillow,  he  slightly  coughed,  and  I 
heard  him  say,  —  *  That  is  blood  from  my  mouth.' 
.  .  .  He  was  examining  a  single  drop  of  blood  upon 
the  sheet.  *  Bring  me  the  candle,  Brown,  and  let  me  see 
this  blood.'  After  regarding  it  steadfastly,  he  looked 
up  in  my  face,  with  a  calmness  of  countenance  that  I 
can  never  forget,  and  said,  —  *  I  know  the  colour  of  that 
blood  ;  —  it  is  arterial  blood  ;  —  I  cannot  be  deceived 
in  that  colour;  — that  drop  of  blood  is  my  death-war- 
rant ;  —  I  must  die. J  " 

With  a  surgeon's  knowledge  of  his  case,  and  a  lover's 
despair,  Keats  accepted  it  manfully,  and,  on  the  whole, 
cheerfully.  He  wrote  of  himself :  "  For  six  months 
before  I  was  taken  ill  I  had  not  passed  a  tranquil  day. 
Either  that  gloom  overspread  me,  or  I  was  suffering 
under  some  passionate  feeling."  But  now,  lying  in 
bed,  he  thought  "  of  green  fields,"  and  perceived  "  how 
astonishingly  does  the  chance  of  leaving  the  world  im- 
press a  sense  of  its  natural  beauties  upon  us  I  "  That 


Introduction  217 

chance  drew  near  so  rapidly  that  on  September  18, 
1820,  he  said  farewell  to  many  loving  friends,  and 
sailed  for  Naples  with  one  devoted  companion,  Joseph 
Severn.  In  his  anguish  at  leaving  Fanny  Brawne,  he 
wrote  to  Brown  from  Italy :  "  I  can  bear  to  die  —  I 
cannot  bear  to  leave  her.  .  .  .  Oh  God !  .  .  .  Every- 
thing I  have  in  my  trunks  that  reminds  me  of  her  goes 
through  me  like  a  spear.  The  silk  lining  she  put  in 
my  travelling  cap  scalds  my  head.  ...  I  see  her  — 
I  hear  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  Brown,  I  have  coals  of  fire  in  my 
breast.  It  surprises  me  that  the  human  heart  is  capable 
of  containing  and  bearing  so  much  misery."  But  by 
degrees,  as  he  lay  dying  at  Rome,  these  intolerable 
pangs  left  him.  Though  he  could  not  wholly  believe, 
the  kindness  of  the  devoted  Severn,  a  true  man  and 
noble  Christian,  helped  his  unbelief.  "  Poor  Keats," 
wrote  Severn,  "  has  me  ever  by  him,  and  shadows  out 
the  form  of  one  solitary  friend :  he  opens  his  eyes  in 
great  doubt  and  horror,  but  when  they  fall  on  me  they 
close  gently,  open  quietly  and  close  again,  till  he  sinks 
to  sleep." —  "  Doctor,"  he  asked  patiently,  "  when  will 
this  posthumous  life  of  mine  come  to  an  end  ?  "  And 
again  he  said —  "  I  feel  the  flowers  growing  over  me." 
On  February  23,  1821,  "  about  four,"  Severn  has  told 
us,  "  the  approaches  of  death  came  on.  *  Severn  —  I  — 
lift  me  up  —  I  am  dying — I  shall  die  easy;  don't  be 
frightened  —  be  firm,  and  thank  God  it  has  come/" 

Keats  was  buried  —  as  both  Shelley  and  Severn  were 
afterward  —  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Rome,  near 
the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius. 


2i 8  John  Keats 

II.  POEMS 

"  I  hope,"  said  Keats,  in  his  preface  to  Endymion, 
"  I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beauti- 
ful mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness." 
When  you  have  read  that  poem,  and  his  later  Hyperion^ 
you  may  judge  for  yourselves  whether  in  his  hands  the 
beauties  of  Greek  fable  became  any  less  bright.  Lovers 
of  Keats  think  not ;  and  some,  too  zealous  in  his  praise, 
have  called  Keats  a  poet  of  Greek  life,  and  his  spirit 
the  Greek  spirit.  It  is  true  that  in  the  Ode  to  Autumn 
the  imagery,  the  vivid,  beautiful  personification  of  that 
mellow  season,  is  thoroughly  pagan  :  — 

"  Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reap' d  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers: 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook : 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours." 

This  is  from  the  last  great  poem  which  Keats  wrote  ; 
and  in  one  of  his  earliest  you  will  find  a  beautiful  pas- 
sage which  begins  — 

"  Queen  of  the  wide  air;  thou  most  lovely  queen," 

and  which  describes  the  bridal  night  of  Cynthia,  goddess 
of  the  moon.      In  many  other  instances,  the  moon  in 


Introduction  219 

this  poet's  sky  is  not  the  pale  weary  satellite  that  Shelley 
watched  and  questioned,  but  the  mystic  form  of  Selene, 
as  figured  by  the  Greeks.  Forces  of  nature  Keats 
loved  to  think  of  as  mythical  beings,  half  human,  half 
divine,  like  the  daughter  of  Hyperion,  when  — 

."  One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain." 

Yet  you  should  remember  that  Keats,  though  he  em- 
ployed these  figures  of  pagan  speech,  did  not  actually 
people  his  world  with  them,  but  used  them  as  adornments. 
He  is  a  Greek  in  his  power  to  speak  out  freely  all  that 
is  in  him,  whether  it  be  simple  or  complex,  new  or  old. 
The  mythology  of  Hellas  was  to  him  always  a  wonder 
and  a  delight.  But  Keats  was  also,  in  the  depths  of 
his  genius,  a  romantic  poet  who  studied  and  recalled 
the  beauties  of  Elizabethan  fancy,  and  whose  tales 
move  through  the  enchanted  forest  of  the  Faery  Queen. 

"  Poetry,"  he  once  wrote,  "  must  surprise  by  a  fine 
excess."  The  poet  should  be  — 

"  Filling  every  sense  with  spiritual  sweets, 
As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells." 

This  fine  excess  Keats  drew  not  only  from  classic  and 
mediaeval  story,  but  even  more  from  nature,  from  his  own 
outdoor  world  in  England.  Like  Shakespeare,  he  was 
always  one  to 

"...   watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings." 

For  this  reason,  because  his  mood  was  not  that  of  a 
teacher  or  moralist  but  of  a  loving  observer,  Keats  was 


22O  John  Keats 

able  to  surprise  and  waylay  those  half -hidden  bits  ot 
magic,  in  tranquillity  or  change,  those  little  mysteries 
among  the  leaves,  which  most  of  us  live  and  die  without 
seeing. 

"  Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight : 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings." 

Beside  a  brook  he  sees  the  minnows  — 

"...   how  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 
Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand." 

Behind  the  life  which  is  in  all  these  things,  Keats 
rarely,  if  ever,  suggests  the  presence  —  so  real  and  so 
full  of  awe  to  Wordsworth  —  of  a  mighty  impulse  and 
everlasting  purpose.  Keats  wanders  afield,  to  "  enjoy 
delight  with  liberty."  In  his  early  poems,  the  liberty 
is  almost  too  roving,  the  beauty  of  details  excessive ;  so 
that  his  friend  Leigh  Hunt  was  not  unjust  in  accusing 
him  of  a  "  tendency  to  notice  everything  too  indiscrimi- 
nately, and  without  an  eye  to  natural  proportion  and 
effect."  In  his  narrative  poems,  the  story  often  becomes 
tangled  in  flowery  thickets ;  the  foreground,  though 
rich  and  lovely,  has  no  great  gaps  through  which  the 
imagination  may  see  into  the  distance ;  and  the  persons  ' 
of  his  tale  pause  in  some  luxuriant  place  without  activity 
or  passion  to  make  them  dramatic.  But  these  faults 
belonged  to  the  poet's  youth,  and  had  left  him,  or  were 
leaving  him,  when  his  power  and  his  life  were  cut  short. 
The  poems  in  this  book  are  not  Keats's  first  wayward 


Introduction  221 

attempts  ;  they  show  how  perfectly  this  spirit  of  liberty 
and  delight  had  learned  to  select  and  to  simplify,  and 
without  hovering  too  fondly  over  an  image  of  beauty, 
to  record  it  in  happy  words  that  linger  and  haunt. 

With  this  felicity  of  language  —  often  compared  to 
Shakespeare's  —  Keats  brings  generous  tribute  to  the 
great  poets  dead  and  gone,  the  "  bards  of  passion  and 
of  mirth."  The  Ode  on  the  Poets,  the  sonnet  On  First 
Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,  and  the  Lines  on  the  Mer- 
maid lavern  are  the  golden  coins  with  which  Keats 
pays  his  reckoning  and  takes  his  seat  among  the  glori- 
ous company,  —  true  coin  of  the  realm,  stamped  with 
Apollo's  countenance.  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci. 
containing,  in  the  compass  of  a  short  ballad,  all 
the  dark  beauty  of  mediaeval  fairyland  and  the  obscure 
terror  of  warning  dreams,  conveys  in  elfin  music  the 
power  with  which  Beauty,  in  all  ages,  holds  her  unre- 
quited slaves.  In  the  odes,  To  Autumn,  To  a  Nightingale, 
and  On  a  Grecian  Urn,  you  will  discover  that  odes,  to 
be  among  the  greatest  in  our  language,  need  not  follow 
tradition  so  far  as  to  be  declamatory  or  set  above  the 
pitch  of  ordinary  music.  These  are  quiet,  meditative, 
with  a  kind  of  halcyon,  autumnal  beauty.  There  are  no 
flights,  pauses,  and  sudden  swerves,  no  merely  rhetori- 
cal fire,  no  changes  from  trumpet  to  flute,  from  lyre  to 
sounding  brass  or  full  organ,  such  as  Dry  den  used  in 
Alexanders  Feast.  The  music  of  Keats  maintains  an 
even  tenor,  or  sinks  as 

"  .  .  .  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows." 


222  John   Keats 

His  odes  open  with  no  sweeping  invocations,  but  with 
a  minor  melody  which  at  first  seems  hardly  more  audi- 
ble than  a  thought :  — 

"  Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time." 

It  is  this  tranquillity  of  tone  and  of  mood  that  allows 
Keats,  unhurried  by  the  changing  rush  and  flow  of  the 
usual  ode,  to  give  in  complete  stanzas  his  clear  and  im- 
mortal pictures.  Never  has  an  ode  contained  a  more 
vivid  passage  of  description  than  his  on  the  Grecian 
Urn:  — 

"  Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  in  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be;   and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return." 

When  later  you  come  to  know  the  whole  range  of 
Keats 's  poetry,  you  will  see  in  the  odes  a  growing 
melancholy,  a  sense,  unknown  in  his  earlier  delighted 
freedom,  that  beauty  is  transient,  that  all  living  forms 
of  beauty  pass  into  oblivion.  Keats  came  to  feel 

that  — 

".  .  .  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 
VeiPd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine." 

The  author  of  the  sonnets  beginning  "  When  I  have 


Introduction  223 

fears  that  I  shall  cease  to  be,"  and  "  Bright  star,  would 
1  were  steadfast  as  thou  art,"  had  all  too  much  reason 
to  reflect  on  the  brevity  of  life  and  the  certainty  of 
death.  In  his  last  days  Keats  wrote  :  "  If  I  should  die, 
I  have  left  no  immortal  work  behind  me  —  nothing  to 
make  my  friends  proud  of  my  memory ;  but  I  have 
loved  the  principle  of  beauty  in  all  things,  and  if  I  had 
had  time,  I  would  have  made  myself  remembered." 
The  great  web  of  Keats 's  poetry  was  rent  across  when 
he  was  merely  beginning,  merely  emerging  from  the 
style  of  youth  into  the  chastened  style  of  manhood,  to 
see  that  great  verse  cannot  be  written  luxuriously. 
"  English,"  he  said,  two  years  before  his  death,  "  ought 
to  be  kept  up."  He  saw,  in  other  words,  that  "  the 
false  beauty  proceeding  from  art"  must  give  way  to 
"the  true  voice  of  feeling."  In  his  short  poems  this 
transformation  had  already  come.  Keats 's  longer 
poems  were  still  to  be  written.  But  without  these,  in 
his  brief  span,  with  dignity,  tenderness,  and  glory,  he 
had  told  the  world  — 

'"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,' — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know." 


III.     BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Texts.  —  Poetical  Works,  with  life  by  Lord  Houghton, 
Aldine  edition;  Poetical  Works,  with  letters,  ed.  H.  E.  Scud- 
der,  Cambridge  edition ;  Poems,  ed.  F.  T.  Palgrave  (Golden 
Treasury  Series)  ;  Poems,  ed.  A.  Bates  (Athenaeum  Press 
Series). 


224  John   Keats 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Life,  by  S.  Colvin  (English 
Men  of  Letters) ;  by  W.  M.  Rossetti  (Great  Writers)  ; 
Essays,  by  Matthew  Arnold  (Essays  in  Criticism)  ;  by  J.  R. 
Lowell  (Among  My  Books)  ;  by  D.  Masson  ( Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  Keats,  and  Other  Essays) ;  by  A.  C.  Swinburne 
(Miscellanies) . 


SELECTIONS   FROM    KEATS 

PAGE 

ODE  ON  THE  POETS 225 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER      .        .        .226 

HAPPY  INSENSIBILITY 227 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 228 

BRIGHT  STAR  !   WOULD  I  WERE  STEADFAST  AS  THOU  ART    .  230 

THE  TERROR  OF  DEATH 231 

THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 231 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 232 

TO  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN  LONG  IN  CITY  PENT       .        .        .  235 

ODE  TO  AUTUMN 236 

THE  REALM  OF  FANCY 237 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 241 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 243 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPARTMENT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 

SELECTIONS    FROM    KEATS 


ODE  ON  THE  POETS 

BARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  I 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 

—  Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous 
And  the  parle 1  of  voices  thund'rous  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns  ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
1  Discourse,  parley. 

SELECTIONS—  15  225 


226  John  Keats 

But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 

Philosophic  numbers  smooth ;  20 

Tales  and  golden  histories 

Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you  25 

Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ;  30 

Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim  :  — 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day,  35 

Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  1  40 

IT 
ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 


Selected  Poems  227 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  45 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 

—  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ;  50 

Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


Ill 
HAPPY  INSENSIBILITY 

In  a  drear-nighted  December,  55 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity : 

The  north  cannot  undo  them 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them,  60 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  brook, 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember  65 

Apollo's  summer  look; 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting 


228  John   Keats 

They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbe"d  sense  to  steal  it  — 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


IV 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

1 0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ?  80 

The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

'  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  1 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full,  85 

And  the  harvest's  done. 

*  I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too.'  90 


Selected  Poems  229 

4 1  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful —  a  faery's  child, 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

'  I  made  a  garland  for  her  head,  95 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone;1 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

*  I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long,  100 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 

A  faery's  song. 

'  She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild  and  manna-dew, 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said  105 

"  I  love  thee  true." 

1  She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept  and  sigh'd  full  sore ; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four.  no 

'  And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream 'd  —  Ah  !  woe  betide  1 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream 'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

;  I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too,  115 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all : 


230  John  Keats 

They  cried  —  "  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  1  " 

'  I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 

With  horrid  warning  gap£d  wide,  120 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

'  And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake,         125 

And  no  birds  sing.' 


Bright  Star !  would  !•  were  steadfast  as  thou  art  — 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 

And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite,1  130 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors  :  — 

No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable,  135 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  Love's  ripening  breast 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest ; 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 

And  so  live  ever,  —  or  else  swoon  to  death.  140 

1  Hermit. 


Selected  Poems  23 1 

VI 

THE  TERROR  OF  DEATH 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-pil£d  books,  in  charact'ry 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen 'd  grain  ; 

When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face,      145 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 

And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance ; 

And  when  I  feel,  fair  Creature  of  an  hour  ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more,  150 

Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love  —  then  on  the  shore 

Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

VII 

THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone,  155 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 

Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 

Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 

Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ?  ifa 


23 2  John  Keats 

Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 

Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 

Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food ! 

Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 

Would,  with  his  Maid  Marian,  165 

Sup  and  bowse  l  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill  170 

To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack  175 

The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ?  180 

VIII 
ODE  To  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 

1  Prink. 


Selected  Poems  233 

Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,  185 

But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease.  190 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Provengal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  1 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,  195 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim :         200 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs,  205 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies  ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs  ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow.     210 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 


234  John  Keats 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night,  215 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways.  220 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows. 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ;  225 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves.  230 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
CalPd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mus£d  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die,  235 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  240 


Selected  Poems  235 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  I 

»No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path  245 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm 'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  250 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  I 
Adieu  1  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  I  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  255 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  :  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ?        260 

IX 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 

'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 

And  open  face  of  heaven,  — to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content,  265 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 


236  John  Keats 

Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel,  —  an  eye  270 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 

He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


ODE  TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness,  275 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run  ; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ;  280 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease ; 

For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy  cells.   285 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 


Selected  Poems  237 

Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep,  290 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook : 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look,  295 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?    Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too,  — 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ;  300 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing  ;  and  now  with  treble  soft        305 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


XI 

THE  REALM  OF  FANCY 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam  ; 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth,  310 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her : 


2j  8  John  Keats 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloud  ward  soar.  315 

O  sweet  Fancy  1  let  her  loose ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming ; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too,  320 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ;  325 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  cak£d  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy  330 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd  :  —  send  her  ! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her :  335 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May,  '340 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth : 


Selected  Poems  239 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup,  34 «; 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it :  —  thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear  ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn : 

And,  in  the  same  moment  —  hark  I  350 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ;  355 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower  360 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ;  365 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm  370 

When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 


240  John  Keats 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 

Everything  is  spoilt  by  use :  375 

Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Too  much  gazed  at  ?     Where's  the  maid 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 

Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 

Doth  not  weary  ?     Where's  the  face  380 

One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 

Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth.  385 

Let  then  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ;  390 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet,  395 

And  Jove  grew  languid.  —  Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. 

—  Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam,  400 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


Selected  Poems  241 

XII 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme :  405 

What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Temp£  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens  loth  ? 

What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ?       410 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone :  415 

Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare  ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve  ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss,       420 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  1 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 

And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ;  425 

SELECTIONS —  1 6 


242  John  Keats 

More  happy  love,  more  happy,  happy  love ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd,         430 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest. 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ?         435 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell  440 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !  with  brede  l 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought        445 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

'  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,'  —  that  is  all  450 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

1  Embroidery. 


Selected   Poems  243 

XIII 
THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year ; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man : 

He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  :  455 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 
Spring's  honey 'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings  460 

He  furleth  close :  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness  —  to  let  fair  things 
Passed  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 

Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature.  465 


ROBERT   BROWNING 
I.  LIFE 

ROBERT  BROWNING,  born  in  Camberwell  on  May 
7,  1812,  belonged  —  like  most  of  the  great  English 
poets  —  to  what  their  countrymen  call  the  middle  class. 
His  father  was  a  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  England,  his 
mother  the  daughter  of  William  Wiedemann,  a  German 
ship-owner  who  had  settled  and  married  at  Dundee. 
Their  house,  in  the  London  suburb  of  Camberwell,  was 
a  quiet  place,  as  their  life  was  serene  and  happy.  The 
poet's  father,  a  man  of  intelligence  and  refinement,  not 
only  possessed  such  accomplishments  as  drawing  and 
painting  in  water-colours,  but  was  a  student,  a  sensible 
critic,  and  a  lover  of  books,  pictures,  and  poetry.  At 
dusk,  in  his  library,  he  used  to  walk  up  and  down  with 
the  little  boy  in  his  arms,  singing  him  to  sleep  with 
fragments  of  Anacreon, — the  Greek  words  set  to  old 
English  tunes.  He  loved  his  son  greatly.  "  My  dear 
father,"  wrote  Browning  afterwards,  "put  me  in  a 
condition  most  favourable  for  the  best  work  I  was  cap- 
able of.  When  I  think  of  the  many  authors  who  have 
had  to  fight  their  way  through  all  sorts  of  difficulties, 
I  have  no  reason  to  be  proud  of  my  achievements.  .  .  . 
He  secured  for  me  all  the  ease  and  comfort  that  a  literary 
man  needs  to  do  good  work.  It  would  have  been 

245 


246  Robert  Browning 

shameful  if  I  had  not  done  my  best  to  realize  his  ex- 
pectations of  me."  Of  his  mother  the  poet  said  — 
"  She  was  a  divine  woman."  To  his  latest  day  he 
could  hardly  speak  of  her  without  tears  in  his  eyes. 

His  boyhood  was  quiet  and  happy.  He  was  an 
energetic  boy,  fond  not  only  of  books,  pictures,  and 
music,  but  of  living  things,  which  he  collected  in  a 
small  menagerie,  —  speckled  frogs,  monkeys,  owls, 
hedgehogs.  As  for  books,  "  the  first  ...  I  ever  bought 
in  my  life,"  he  tells  us,  was  Ossian ;  and  "  the  first 
composition  I  was  ever  guilty  of,  was  something  in 
imitation  of  Ossian. "  He  wrote  early  and  constantly. 
"  I  never  can  recollect  not  writing  rhymes  ;  .  .  .  but  I 
knew  they  were  nonsense  even  then."  Byron's  poetry 
and  fame  soon  captivated  him,  and  inspired  a  feeling 
which  he  said  he  "always  retained  ...  in  many  re- 
spects. .  .  .  I  would  at  any  time  have  gone  to  Finchley  to 
see  a  curl  of  [Byron's]  hair  or  one  of  his  gloves  .  .  . 
while  Heaven  knows  that  I  could  not  get  up  enthusiasm 
enough  to  cross  the  room  if  at  the  other  end  of  it  all 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey  were  condensed 
into  the  little  china  bottle  yonder."  Browning's  earliest 
poems  —  the  unpublished  Incondita,  written  at  the  age 
of  twelve  —  were  a  boy's  vision  of  Byronic  romance. 

Of  his  days  in  Mr.  Ready's  school  at  Peckham,  where 
he  remained  till  he  was  fourteen,  there  is  little  to  say. 
He  was  not  a  schoolboy  hero,  like  Keats.  A  few 
facts  stand  out  in  this  uneventful  period.  One  memor- 
able night,  among  the  elms  above  Norwood,  he  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  lights  of  London,  and  was  marvel- 


Introduction  247 

lously  affected  by  the  spectacle  of  that  distant,  pulsat- 
ing mystery.  No  less  memorable  was  the  day  when, 
passing  a  small  book-shop,  he  saw  in  the  window,  and 
bought,  a  copy  of  "  Mr.  Shelley's  Atheistical  Poem  : 
very  scarce."  He  had  never  heard  of  Shelley ;  his 
family  could  tell  him  little  about  that  social  rebel  and  ex- 
ile ;  but  deep  called  unto  deep,  and  Browning  could  not  be 
satisfied  until  his  mother,  visiting  London,  had  sent 
him  down  a  parcel  of  Shelley's  books.  By  a  fortunate 
chance,  she  sent  also  three  volumes  of  a  second  un- 
known, John  Keats.  Often  in  later  life  Browning  re- 
called the  glory  of  that  May  evening  when  these 
wonderful  books  rolled  back  the  boundaries  of  his 
world,  while  two  nightingales,  in  the  laburnums  and 
copper-beeches,  sang  in  such  rivalry  as  if  they  had 
been  the  spirits  of  the  two  great  poets. 

If  these  are  the  chief  events  of  his  boyhood,  those 
of  his  youth  are  even  fewer.  He  was  not  sent  to  either 
Oxford  or  Cambridge,  but  had  private  tutors  at  home, 
where  he  learned  to  ride  and  fence,  to  box  and  dance, 
to  read  French,  to  know  more  about  music  than  any 
other  English  poet,  and  more  about  Greek  and  Italian 
history  and  literature  than  almost  any  other  "  man  of 
the  world."  Man  of  the  world  he  became,  as  genuinely 
as  he  was  poet  born.  Mrs.  Bridell-Fox  has  told  how 
Browning,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  called  on  her 
father,  and  finding  him  not  at  home,  promptly  sat 
down  at  the  piano  to  play  for  her.  "He  was  then 
slim  and  dark,  and  very  handsome,  and  —  may  I  hint 
it  ?  —  just  a  trifle  of  a  dandy,  addicted  to  lemon-coloured 


248  Robert  Browning 

kid  gloves  and  such  things,  quite  the  glass  of  fashion 
and  the  mould  of  form.  But  full  of  '  ambition,'  eager 
for  fame,  and  what  is  more,  determined  to  conquer 
fame  and  to  achieve  success."  In  middle  age,  and 
later,  he  is  described  by  other  writers  as  strong  in  the 
shoulder,  slender  in  the  waist,  "  a  middle-sized,  well 
set  up,  erect  man,  with  somewhat  emphatic  gestures, 
and  .  .  .  a  curiously  strident  voice,"  —  a  manly  figure, 
thoughtful  face,  and  conventional  bearing.  This  most 
novel  and  unconventional  poet  was  all  his  life  a  con- 
ventional man.  He  hated  all  "  Bohemian "  irregu- 
larity, lived  as  urbanely  as  other  men,  took  pleasure 
in  the  forms  of  social  life,  and  paid  his  bills  as  promptly 
as  the  practical  banker,  his  father.  In  company,  we 
are  told,  he  was  in  fact  taken  for  some  lively  financier. 
His  mode  of  life  in  any  man  without  his  gifts  —  or 
without  his  famous  friends  —  would  have  been  common- 
place. 

Pauline ',  published  in  1833,  but  far  more  Paracelsus , 
in  1835,  won  f°r  Browning  many  of  those  friends,  who, 
themselves  admired,  became  admirers  of  his  genius,  or 
lovers  of  the  man  himself,  or  both.  Among  them  were 
Leigh  Hunt,  John  Stuart  Mill,  the  "  poor  old  lion  " 
Landor,  Thomas  Carlyle,  with  many  others.  At  a 
dinner,  where  not  only  Landor  was  present,  but  the 
great  Wordsworth,  their  host,  Serjeant  Talfourd,  pro- 
posing "  The  Poets  of  England,"  coupled  with  the  toast 
the  name  of  "  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  the  author  of 
Paracelsus"  Wordsworth,  leaning  across  the  table, 
said  —  "I  am  proud  to  drink  your  health,  Mr.  Brown- 


Introduction  249 

ing."  And  before  the  evening  was  over,  the  tragic 
actor  Macready  had  made  this  youngest  of  the  poets 
promise  to  write  him  a  play.  Strafford,  the  result  of  this 
promise,  was  performed  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  on 
May  i,  1837.  Though  the  mismanagement  of  the 
theatre  allowed  it  to  run  for  only  a  few  nights,  the  play 
was  well  received  and,  as  Browning  wrote  afterward,  was 
applauded  by  "  a  pitful  of  good-natured  people." 

His  career  as  dramatist  and  poet  was  now  fully  begun. 
His  published  works  form  so  long  a  list  that  we  can  men- 
tion only  the  more  important.  After  the  first  three,  al- 
ready named,  and  after  Sordello,  in  1840,  appeared 
Pippa  Passes,  in  1841  ;  King  Victor  and  King  Charles, 
and  the  Dramatic  Lyrics,  in  1842  ;  The  Return  of 
the  Druses,  and  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  in  1843 ; 
Colombe's  Birthday,  in  1844;  Dramatic  Romances  and 
Lyrics,  in  1845 ;  and  in  1846,  Luria  and  A  SouPs  Trag- 
edy. All  these  form  parts  I  to  VIII  of  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates. To  them  succeeded  Men  and  Women,  1855  ; 
Dramatis  Persons,  1864;  The  Ring  and  the  Book, 
1868-69  ;  Balaustion's  Adventure,  and  Prince  Hohenstiel- 
Schwangau,  1871  ;  Fifine  at  the  Fair,  1872  ;  Aristophanes' 
Apology,  and  The  Inn  Album,  1875  ;  Pacchiarotto , 
and  other  Poems,  1876;  The  Agamemnon  of  &schy- 
lus,  1877  ;  Dramatic  Idyls,  1879-80  ;  Jocoseria,  1883  ; 
Ferishtah's  Fancies,  1884  ;  and  finally  Asolando,  1889. 

Throughout  these  long  labours,  Browning  remained  a 
vigorous,  wholesome  man,  interested  in  many  things  — 
studying  music,  learning  to  paint  pictures,  making  clay 
models  and  smashing  them,  analysing  criminal  cases 


250  Robert  Browning 

with  all  the  relish  of  an  amateur  detective.  Lockhart 
said  that  he  liked  Browning  because  he  was  not  a  liter- 
ary man.  The  vanities  and  jealousies  of  little  writers 
were  not  in  him ;  he  admired  all  kinds  of  good  work, 
remained  warm  friends  with  many  irritable  brothers  in 
genius.  Though  he  had  the  temper  of  a  fighting  man, 
attacks  on  his  own  works,  charges  of  obscurity  and  affec- 
tation, did  not  ruffle  him.  His  attitude  toward  Sordello 
was  characteristic.  After  Douglas  Jerrold,  recovering 
from  serious  illness,  had  put  down  the  book  in  defeat 
and  dismay,  crying — "  O  God,  I  am  an  idiot !  " — after 
Carlyle  said  that  his  wife  had  "  read  through  Sor- 
dello without  being  able  to  make  out  whether  *  Sor- 
dello '  was  a  man,  or  a  city,  or  a  book,'*  —  in  short,  after 
it  had  become  humorous  or  fashionable  not  to  under- 
stand Browning,  he  maintained  the  same  manly  position  : 
"I  blame  nobody,  least  of  all  myself,  who  did  my 
best  then  and  since. " 

He  had  long  admired  the  poetry  of  Miss  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  a  high-spirited,  courageous,  and  already  famous 
woman  who  for  many  years  had  been  bed-ridden. 
Her  father,  obstinately  believing  that  she  would  never 
recover,  kept  her  in  a  darkened  room,  to  which  few 
visitors  were  admitted  ;  but  through  a  common  friend, 
John  Kenyon,  her  "  fairy  godfather,"  the  two  poets  be- 
gan a  correspondence  which  has  become  famous.  In 
1846  they  met,  in  the  sick-room.  It  is  a  long  and  beau- 
tiful story,  how  the  prince  broke  the  hedge  about  this 
Sleeping  Princess,  and — when  her  father  had  forbidden 
her  to  seek  health  in  Italy — how  Browning,  the  punc- 


Introduction  251 

tilious,  conventional  man,  braved  the  world's  opinion 
to  rescue  her.  They  were  married  quietly  in  St.  Mary- 
lebone  Church,  on  September  12,  1846,  and  as  quietly 
made  their  way  across  the  continent  to  Italy.  In  all 
the  history  of  marriages,  perhaps  none  was  ever  happier. 
Mrs.  Browning  was  soon  restored  to  health,  to  sunshine, 
and  to  brilliant  friends.  In  the  spring  of  1849,  at  Flor- 
ence, their  son  Robert  was  born.  And  in  Florence,  in 
June,  1861,  after  "  a  great  love  had  kept  her  on  earth  " 
for  fifteen  years,  Mrs.  Browning  died.  The  rest  of  her 
husband's  life  is  summed  up  in  his  brave  sentence  — 
"  I  mean  to  keep  writing,  whether  I  like  it  or  not." 

Browning  died  at  Venice,  on  December  12,  1889. 
He  was  buried  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  Westminster 
Abbey. 

II.    POEMS 

Of  Robert  Browning's  poetry  it  is  possible  that  you 
have  read  little  or  nothing  ;  but  it  is  hardly  possible, 
in  such  a  case,  that  you  have  not  heard  more  than  one 
joke,  good  or  bad,  laughable  or  stupid,  on  the  subject 
of  his  obscurity.  These  jokes  have  become  hackneyed, 
yet  perhaps  they  still  tend  to  make  persons  who  have 
not  read  Browning  think  him  hard  to  understand.  In 
his  longer  poems  he  is,  indeed,  anything  but  clear. 
Tennyson,  after  reading  Sordello,  said  the  opening  line 
of  the  poem. — 

"  Who  will,  may  hear  Sordello's  story  told, " 
and  the  closing,  — 

"  Who  would,  has  heard  Sordello's  story  told,  " 


252  Robert  Browning 

were  the  only  lines  he  understood,  arid  they  were  both 
lies.  You,  however,  will  have  no  call  to  read  SordeUo 
or  any  other  long,  perplexing  poem,  —  it  may  be  for 
years,  and  it  may  be  forever.  Should  you  find  any 
given  page  obscure,  at  sight,  the  printed  lines  will  be- 
come clearer  as  you  read  them  aloud,  because  Browning, 
when  he  wrote,  followed  the  order  of  spoken  English 
rather  than  of  written  English.  He  has,  moreover, 
many  short  poems,  full  of  great  beauty  and  meaning,  in 
which  neither  beauty  nor  meaning  should  escape  you 
if  you  will  remember  one  simple  and  important  fact. 

This  fact  is,  that  Browning  wrote  the  greater  part  of 
his  verses,  whether  songs  or  stories,  in  a  fashion  wholly 
different  from  the  fashion  of  his  companion  poets. 
The  difference  you  will  quickly  see  :  except  in  compara- 
tively rare  instances,  he  does  not  speak  to  you  directly 
out  of  his  own  heart,  like  Wordsworth,  or  Byron,  or 
Shelley,  or  Keats,  but  indirectly  out  of  the  heart  and 
from  the  lips  of  some  real  or  imagined  character. 
Browning  is,  in  other  words,  a  dramatic  poet. 

This  does  not  mean  that  he  is  both  poet  and  drama- 
tist, as  Shakespeare  was.  Though  many  persons  have 
admired  Browning's  plays,  you  will  discover,  when  you 
come  to  them  later,  that  those  plays  lack  some  quality 
which  audiences  demand  in  the  theatre.  At  all  events, 
you  will  agree  that  Browning  is  not  first  and  foremost  a 
playwright,  and  yet  that  he  is  supreme  in  one  province 
of  the  playwright's  art,  —  a  province  which  he  annexed 
to  the  kingdom  of  poetry.  He  himself  called  certain  of 
his  poems  "  Dramatic  Lyrics  "  and  "  Dramatic  Idyls." 


Introduction  253 

These  form  a  class  of  poetry  so  new  in  Browning's 
time,  so  characteristic  of  his  genius,  and  so  much  his 
favourite  way  of  writing,  that  we  always  think  of  them  as 
his  own  undisputed  invention.  Some,  though  not  all, 
of  his  pieces  in  this  book  are  dramatic  lyrics  or  episodes, 
and  will  show  you,  briefly  yet  clearly,  what  Browning 
was  fondest  of  writing  and  how  he  set  about  to  write. 

The  poems  which  are  not  of  this  sort  will  easily  ex- 
plain themselves.  The  Cavalier  Tunes  are,  as  you  will 
see,  rousing  songs  roared  out  lustily  by  "  great-hearted 
gentlemen,"  who  have  sat  down  with  right  English  ap- 
petites to  a  table  where  the  pasty  is  good  and  the  wine 
plentiful,  or  who  have  jumped  up  in  high  spirits  at  the 
call  of  "  Boots  and  Saddles,  "  to  ride  out  for  Church  and 
King.  Home- Thoughts,  from  Abroad  shows  not  only  the 
longing  of  an  exile,  among  the  gaudy  melon-flowers  of 
Italy,  for  the  sights  and  sounds  of  April  in  England,  but 
also  a  keen  eye  for  the  little  processes  of  Nature  which 
make  beautiful  such  fields  and  hedges  as  a  man  might 
see  in  any  week-day  ramble. 

In  Home-Thoughts -,  from  the  Sea,  Browning  recalls  with 
gorgeous  colour  and  triumphant  tone,  the  places  of  vic- 
tory, Gibraltar,  Cadiz  Bay,  Trafalgar,  —  where  England 
has  taught  him  the  proud  lesson  and  service  of  patriot- 
ism. In  both  of  these  poems,  he  speaks  with  his  own 
voice ;  as  also  in  The  Lost  Leader,  where  he  cries  out, 
in  both  sorrow  and  indignation,  not  against. a  single 
deserter  from  a  single  cause,  but  against  all  deserters 
from  all  good  causes.  With  his  own  voice,  too,  he  nar- 
rates the  smiling,  mortal  heroism  of  the  young  soldier 


254  Robert  Browning 

whose  death  was  but  an  Incident  of  the  French  Camp ; 
and  in  more  deliberate  lines  tells  of  The  Boy  and  the 
Angel,  who  changed  places  in  order  to  prove  that  God 
demands  praise  from  all  His  creatures,  and  rejoices  no 
less  in  a  poor  workman's  song  at  his  bench  than  in 
"  the  Pope's  great  way"  of  praise. 

The  remaining  pieces  here  set  before  you  illus- 
trate, in  various  manner  and  degree,  Browning's 
dramatic  habit.  Herve  Riel  is,  to  be  sure,  told  by  the 
poet,  not  by  his  spokesman  ;  it  begins  in  a  narrative 
vein,  and  ends  with  an  epilogue  or  commentary;  but 
the  scene  of  the  episode  is  definitely  and  vividly  kept 
on  the  deck  of  Damfreville's  ship,  the  Formidable, 
where  we  see  the  brave  and  ready  pilot  at  his  work, 
we  hear  him  laugh,  and  answer  boldly,  and  holla 
"  Anchor !  ",  just  as  we  hear  his  dialogue  with  Dam- 
freville,  and  the  cheers  that  rise  under  the  ramparts  of 
Solidor.  Neither  scene  nor  action  is  anything  but 
dramatic.  The  poet's  order  is  obeyed  :  — 

"  In  my  verse,  Herve  Riel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honour  France,  love  thy  wife  the  Belle 
Aurora ! " 

In  Evelyn  Hope  —  though  the  poem  is  meditative 
and,  as  it  were,  silent  —  the  first  stanza  discloses  the 
scene  as  if  for  a  play  :  — 

"  Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book -shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 


Introduction  255 

Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink." 

And  though  the  following  stanzas  contain  no  action, 
they  unfold  the  soliloquy  of  the  principal  actor  who  sits 
watching,  and  bends  at  last  to  shut  the  geranium  leaf 
inside  the  dead  girl's  hand. 

How  They  brought  the  Good  News  is  confined,  of 
course,  to  no  single  scene,  but  moves  with  fiery  swift- 
ness through  league  after  league.  It  has  been  called  a 
ballad  of  brave  horses.  Yet  even  here,  as  we  gallop 
with  Dirck  and  Joris  through  the  night,  the  sunrise,  and 
the  glaring  day,  we  have  taken  the  place  of  the  third, 
nameless  hero,  swung  into  his  saddle,  and  galloped 
onward  in  all  his  exhilaration  and  impatience.  We  our- 
selves shove  the  hero  aside — as  Stevenson  has  finely 
said  —  to  bathe  in  fresh  experience.  We  see  how  — 

"  At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past." 

The  stirring  ride  is,  after  all,  a  narrative,  but  it 
starts  with  a  rush  that  leaves  us  no  time  to  question  or 
to  catch  breath;  we  spring  to  the,  stirrup  in  the  first 
line,  and  gallop  till  Roland  halts  in  Aix. 

Pheidippides,  with  an  opening  not  so  abrupt,  is  the 
one  poem  which  may  leave  you  puzzled  until  the  action 
has  begun,  and  perhaps  after.  Here,  more  than  <in 
any  of  the  foregoing  pieces,  you  must  remember  the 
one  simple,  important  fact  of  which  we  spoke, —  that 


256  Robert  Browning 

Browning  is  a  lyrical  dramatist.  Here,  more  than  ever, 
you  must  ask  yourselves  who  it  is  that  speaks.  In  his 
opening  lines  Browning  is  like  an  actor  who  appears  in 
many  disguises.  This  story  of  the  glorious  race  from 
Athens  to  Sparta,  from  Marathon  to  the  Acropolis,  is 
told  (at  the  outset,  and  nearly  to  the  end)  by  the  runner 
himself, — the  exultant  young  Pheidippides,  returning 
to  hail  the  land  which  he  saved  by  his  speed.  The 
beauties  of  the  poem  you  are  in  no  danger  of  over- 
looking. Of  heroic  temper,  it  runs  and  races  as  though 
with  the  feathered  ankles  of  Mercury.  It  is  "a  field 
which  the  fire  runs  through." 

One  Word  More,  the  beautiful  lines  in  which  Brown- 
ing devotes  himself  and  his  whole  achievement  to  his 
wife,  will  show  you  better  than  any  words  of  prose  in 
what  mode  he  loved  to  practise  his  art.  In  the  fif- 
teenth stanza  he  says  :  — 

u  Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the  speech,  a  poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 
I  am  mine  and  yours  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 
Karshish,  Cleon,  Norbert,  and  the  fifty." 

The  moral,  the  doctrine  of  brave  glad  optimism  which 
Browning  everywhere  enforces,  you  will  in  later  read- 
ing piece  together  from  many  poems,  and  find 
yourselves  the  better  for.  A  highly  complex  poet, 
Browning  held  a  simple  creed.  In  Herve  ^/>/and  in  a 


Introduction  257 

score  of  other  pieces,  he  chose  for  his  heroes  no  great 
shining  figures,  splendidly  rewarded.  The  pilot,  an 
obscure,  plain  man,  gained  only  the  cheers  aboard 
ship  and  a  day  ashore  to  see  his  wife.  His  feat  was 
not  set  off  to  the  world  or  trumpeted  abroad.  Success, 
to  Browning,  never  means  riches,  or  fame,  or  even  the 
fulfilment  of  a  man's  or  a  woman's  purpose  in  life. 
Defeat,  to  him,  was  not  by  any  means  failure.  The 
human  spirit,  he  tells  us  again  and  again,  may  still  be 
unconquerable  even  in  disaster,  when  all  the  odds  of 
life  and  fate  are  dead  against  us,  as  were  those  grim 
watchers  on  the  hills  who  mocked  Childe  Roland  at  the 
Dark  Tower.  The  success,  the  reward  in  such  a  des- 
perate pass,  is  the  knowledge  that  we  can  do  our  best 
proudly,  as  Childe  Roland  blew  the  last  challenge  on 
his  slug-horn.  The  wisdom  of  Browning  is  not  the 
wisdom  of  this  world.  Like  Ecclesiastes,  he  might 
say:  — 

"  This  wisdom  have  I  seen  under  the  sun,  and  it  seemed  great 
unto  me : 

"  There  was  a  little  city,  and  few  men  within  it ;  and  there  came 
a  great  king  against  it,  and  built  great  bulwarks  against  it. 

"  Now  there  was  found  in  it  a  poor  wise  man,  and  he  by  his  wis- 
dom delivered  the  city ;  yet  no  man  remembered  that  same  poor 
man. 

"  Then  said  I,  Wisdom  is  better  than  strength,  nevertheless  the 
poor  man's  wisdom  is  despised  and  his  words  are  not  heard. 

"  The  words  of  wise  men  are  heard  in  quiet  more  than  the  cry 
of  him  that  ruleth  among  fools." 

The  moral  and  the  motive  of  this  Biblical  story 
might  be  those  of  almost  any  dramatic  episode  in 

SELECTIONS —  I'J 


258  Robert  Browning 

Browning.  To  him,  glory  and  honour  lie  with  the  man 
who  has  done  good  work,  and  with  that  man  only. 
The  world  may  be  full  of  errors  and  defeats  and  mis- 
judgments.  But  Browning,  nobly  audacious,  declares 
that  "  God's  in  his  Heaven,  All's  right  with  the  world  !  " 
Old  age,  the  great  probability  of  failure,  death  at  last, 
wait  for  us  in  that  world  ;  but  meanwhile  this  coura- 
geous poet  would  have  us  — 

"  Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain, 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang, 
Dare,  never  grudge  the  throe." 

III.   BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Texts. — Poetical  Works,  Cambridge  edition;  Poetical 
Works  (Macmillan,  1896). 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Life,  by  W.  Sharp  (Great 
Writers)  ;  by  G.  K.  Chesterton  (English  Men  of  Letters)  ; 
An  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  Browning,  by  A.  Symons ; 
Handbook  to  Works  of  Browning,  by  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr ; 
Essays,  by  E.  Dowden  (Studies  in  Literature)  \  by  J.  J. 
Chapman  {Emerson  and  Other  Essays)-,  by  R-  H.  Hutton 
(Literary  Essays,  and  Essays  Theological  and  Literary). 


SELECTIONS    FROM    BROWNING 

PAGE 

CAVALIER  TUNES 261 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 264 

THE  LOST  LEADER 266 

"  HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO 

Aix" 267 

EVELYN  HOPE 271 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 273 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA 274 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL 275 

ONE  WORD  MORE 278 

HERVE  KIEL 287 

PHEIDIPPIDES 294 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 302 

UP  AT  A  VILLA  —  DOWN  IN  THE  CITY        ....  304 


259 


SELECTIONS    FROM    BROWNING 

I 

CAVALIER  TUNES 
i 

MARCHING    ALONG 

I 

KENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing : 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong,  5 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

II 

God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries 

Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup, 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup  10 

Till  you're  — 

(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty -score  strong. 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 
261 


262  Robert  Browning 

in 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 

Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well !     15 

England,  good  cheer !     Rupert  is  near  ! 

Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 

(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song? 

IV 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles  !     Pym  and  his  snarls     29 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles  ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight, 

(Chorus)  March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong,  24. 

Great-heaf  ted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  / 


GIVE   A    ROUSE 

„    I 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  I 

H 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since  ?  30 

Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 


Selected   Poems  263. 

Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since  ? 

Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ? 

(Chorus)  King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles^  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now  ?  35 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  1 

in 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else,  40 

While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him  ? 

(Chorus)  King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  I  45 

3 

BOOT   AND    SADDLE 

I 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away ! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray, 

(Chorus)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away  ! 

II 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say ;  50 

Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and  pray 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay  — 

(Chorus)  "  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and away  /" 


264  Robert  Browning 

in 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 

Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads1  array :        55 

Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows  ere*  this,  by  my  fay,  * 

(Chorus)  "  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  aw  ay  I " 

IV 

Who  ?     My  wife  Gertrude  ;  that,  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay  ! 
I've  better  counsellors  ;  what  counsel  they  ?  60 

(Chorus)  "  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  aw  ay  I " 

II 
INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 

i 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storm  ing-day  ;  65 

With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

II 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "  My  plans  70 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
1  Faith. 


Selected  Poems  265 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound  75 

Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

HI 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy:  80 

You  hardly  could  suspect  — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two.  85 

IV 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans  90 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  !  "  The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  his  plans. 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes  95 


266  Robert  Browning 

A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  ; 

;<  You're  wounded  !  "  "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 
Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 

"  I'm  killed,  Sire  !"     And  his  chief  beside,          i 
Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


Ill 

THE  LOST  LEADER 


Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote  ;  105 

They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed  : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service  ! 

Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye,  m 

Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  —  they  watch  from  their 
graves !  115 

He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

—  He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  1 


Selected  Poems  267 

ii 

We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through  his  presence  ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire  :     121 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God !  125 
Life's  night  begins  :   let  him  never  come  back  to  us  1 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part  —  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him  —  strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own  ;  131 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne  1 

IV 

"  HOW   THEY    BROUGHT   THE   GOOD    NEWS    FROM 

GHENT  TO  Aix  " 


I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he  ; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ;       135 
"Good  speed!  "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  un- 
drew ; 
"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through  ; 


268  Robert  Browning 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


II 

Not  a  word  to  each  other ;  we  kept  the  great  pace      140 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique l  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit.  145 

in 

'Twas  moonset  at  starting ;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 
At  Duffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half- 
chime,  150 
So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there  is  time  1  " 

IV 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 

To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last,  155 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray : 

1  The  pommel  of  the  saddle. 


Selected  Poems  269 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent 

back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance  160 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

VI 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her,  165 
We'll  remember  at'  Aix "  —  for  one  heard  the  quick 

wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched   neck  and  staggering 

knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 


VII 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I,  170 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like 

chaff ; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white,  • 
And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight  1  "  175 


270  Robert  Browning 


VIII 

"  How  they'll  greet  us  !  "  —  and  all  in  a  moment  his 

roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim,     180 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


IX 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or 
good,  186 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 


And  all  I  remember  is,  —  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine,  190 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine. 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 
Ghent. 


-  Selected  Poems  271 


V 

EVELYN  HOPE 

i 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour.  195 

That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass  ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass  200 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

ii 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  : 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim,  205 

Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares,  — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

in 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope?  210 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew  — 


272  Robert   Browning 

And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide,       215 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside  ? 

IV 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love  :  220 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you.  225 


But  the  time  will  come,  at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine,  230 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

VI 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times,  235 

Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 
Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes  ; 


Selected  Poems  273 

Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope !  240 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  1 

VII 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  ; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 
smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's   young 
gold.  245 

So,  hush, —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep  ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


VI 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there,  250 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England  see's,  some  morning, 

unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm  tree  bole  l  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  !  255 

l  Trunk. 
SELECTIONS  —  1 8 


274  Robert  Browning 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  ! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear  tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover  259 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 

That's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 

And,  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew  265 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  1 


VII 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  Northwest  died 

away ; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz 

Bay; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar 

lay ;  270 

In  the  dimmest  Northeast  distance  dawned  Gibraltar 

grand  and  gray  ; 
"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me :  how  can  I  help 

England  ?  "  —  say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise 

and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 


Selected  Poems  275 

VIII 
THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night  -275 

"  Praise  God  !  "  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well ; 

O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell.  280 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "  Praise  God  !  " 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 
And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew. 

Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  "  Well  done  ;  285 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son : 

"  As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 

Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 

"  This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 

Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome."  290 

Said  Theocrite,  "  Wrould  God  that  I 

Might  praise  Him,  that  great  way,  and  die  !  " 

Night  passed,  day  shone, 
And  Theocrite  was  gone. 


276  Robert  Browning 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway,  295 

A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 

God  said  in  heaven,  "  Nor  day  nor  night 
.  ;t       Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight." 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth, 

Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth  ;  300 

Entered,  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell, 

Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman  well ; 

And  morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite. 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew :  305 

The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue : 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay  : 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent, 

And  ever  lived  on  earth  content.  310 

(He  did  God's  will ;  to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said,  "  A  praise  is  in  mine  ear ; 
There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear  : 

"  So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so  315 

New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool  go. 


Selected  Poems  277 

"  Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways : 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell.  320 

'Twas  Easter  Day :  he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  Saint  Peter's  dome. 

In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery, 

With  his  holy  vestments  dight,1  325 

Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite : 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 

Till  on  his  life  the  sickness  weighed ;  330 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer  : 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear, 
He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here. 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned,  335 

And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

"  I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here ;  I  did  not  well. 

1  Clothed, 


278  Robert  Browning 

"  Vainly  I  left  my  angel-sphere, 

Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year.  340 

"  Thy  voice's  praise  seemed  weak  ;  it  dropped  — 
Creation's  chorus  stopped ! 

"  Go  back  and  praise  again 
The  early  way,  while  I  remain. 

"  With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain,  345 

Take  up  creation's  pausing  strain. 

Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ : 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  boy!" 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home  ; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome.  350 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died : 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 


IX 

ONE  WORD  MORE 
i 

There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 

Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished  ! 

Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together  :  355 

Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 


Selected   Poems  279 

ii 

Rafael  made  a  century  l  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas  :  360 

These,  the  world  might  view  —  but  one,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow  365 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 

Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving  — 

Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 

Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 

in 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume,  370 

(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 

Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 

Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas  — 

Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 

Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision,  375 

Her,  that's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 

Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

IV 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 
Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

1  Hundred. 


280  Robert   Browning 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it.  \  380 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  cried  too,  "  Ours,  the  treasure  1  " 
Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 


Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 

Whom  to  please  ?     You  whisper  "  Beatrice."  385 

While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 

(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 

Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 

When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 

Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma,  390 

Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 

Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 

Let  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence)  — 

Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 

Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving,  395 

Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 

In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 

Says  he  —  "  Certain  people  of  importance  " 

(Such  he  gave  his  daily  dreadful  line  to) 

"  Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet."  400 

Says  the  poet  —  "  Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 

VI 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 


Selected  Poems  281 


VII 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture.  405  * 

While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 

While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 

In  they  broke,  those  "  people  of  importance  :  " 

We  and  Bice l  bear  the  loss  for  ever. 

vni 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture?  410 

This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize  !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 

Using  nature  that's  an  art  to  others,  415 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 

Does  he  paint?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture,  420 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 

Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

IX 

Wherefore?     Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement !  425 
He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 

1  Beatrice. 


282  Robert  Browning 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing.  430 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and  mocked  —  "Shall  smiting  help 

us?" 

When  they  drank  and  sneered  —  "  A  stroke  is  easy  !  " 
When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey, 
Throwing  him  for  thanks — "  But  drought  was  pleas- 
ant." 436 
Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 
Thus  the  doing  savours  of  disrelish  ; 
Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 
O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate,  440 
Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 
For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 
Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 
*  Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude  — 
"  How  shouldst  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us  ?  " 
Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel  —                  446 
t's  flesh-pots  —  nay,  the  drought  was  better." 


Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance, 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat.  450 

Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 


Selected  Poems  283 

XI 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 

(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely, 

Were  she  but  the  Ethiopian  bondslave,) 

He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel,  455 

Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 

Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 

Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 

(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 

Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress.  460 

XII 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me  ; 

So  it  seems :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me ;  465 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing : 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love  I 

XIII 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us  — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it.     470 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 


284  Robert  Browning 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little,  475 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge l  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  through  bronze,  may  breathe  through 

silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 
He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I  do.  4So 

XIV 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 

Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 

Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 

Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the  speech,  a  poem. 

Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows,  485 

Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 

I  am  mine  and  yours  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 

Karshish,  Cleon,  Norbert,  and  the  fifty. 

Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 

Not  as  Lippo,  Roland,  or  Andrea,  490 

Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence : 

Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 

Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also  ! 

Poor  the  speech ;  be  how  I  speak,  for'all  things.         495 

xv 

Not  but  that  you  know  me  !     Lo,  the  moon's  self  ! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 

1  Margin  of  a  prayer-book. 


Selected  Poems  285 

Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 

Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  colour, 

Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight,  500 

Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 

Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 

Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 

Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 

Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished,  505 

Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 

Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 

Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish. 


XVI 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  noteworthy  ? 

Nay  :  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal,  510 

Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy), 

All  her  magic  ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos), 

She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman  — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace,  515 

Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats  —  him,  even  ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal  — 

When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven, 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  !  520 

Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals  ? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire 


286  Robert  Browning 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  ?          525 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved  work,      530 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also  ! 

XVII 

What  were  seen  ?     None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 
Only  this  is  sure  —  the  sight  were  other, 
Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 
Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London.  535 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her  1 

XVIII 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love  ! 

This  to  you  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets  !  540 

Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side  —  there's  the  wonder, 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you  1 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you  — 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them,  545 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 


Selected  Poems  287 

XIX 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas,  550 

Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom  1 

X 

HERV£  KIEL 

i 

.   On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety- 
two, 

Did  the  English  fight  the  French  —  woe  to  France  ! 
And,  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through  the 
blue,  556 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks 

pursue, 
Came   crowding   ship  on    ship  to  St.    Malo  on  the 

Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


'Twas  the   squadron   that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in 

full  chase  ;  560 

First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship, 

Damfreville ; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
"  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  1  565 


288  Robert  Browning 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbour,  take  us  quick  — 

or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will  1 " 

ill 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt  on 

board ; 
"  Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these  to 

pass?"  laughed  they: 

"  Rocks   to   starboard,  rocks   to   port,  all   the  passage 

scarred  and  scored,  570 

Shall  the  '  Formidable '  here  with  her  twelve  and  eighty 

guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow 

way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty 

tons, 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 
Now  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide.  575 

Reach  the  mooring  ?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  1 " 

IV 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  :  580 

"Here's  the  English    at   our   heels;  would  you  have 

them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern  and 

bow, 


Selected  Poems  289 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground !  " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech).  585 

"  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 

Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 

Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the 

beach  ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


"  Give  the  word  I  "     But  no  such  word  590 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck  amid  all 

these 

—  A  Captain?    A  Lieutenant?     A  Mate  —  first,  sec- 
ond, third? 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  !  595 

But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed  by  Tourville  for 

the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herv£  Kiel  the  Croisickese. 

VI 

And,  "What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?"  cries 

nerve"  Kiel :  . 
"Are   you  mad,  you  Malouins?     Are  you  cowards, 

fools,  or  rogues  ? 
Talk   to   me  of   rocks   and   shoals,  me   who  took  the 

soundings,  tell  600 

SELECTIONS —  19 


290  Robert  Browning 

On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 
Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river 

disembogues  ? l 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold  ?     Is  it  love  the  lying's 

for? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay,  605 

Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France  ?     That  were  worse 

than  fifty  Hogudfc  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !     Sirs,  believe 

me  there's  a  way ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer,  610 

Get  this  '  Formidable  '  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I  know 

well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound ;  615 

And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 

—  Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I've  nothing   but   my  life,  —  here's  my  head!" 
cries  Herv6  Kiel. 

VII 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great  I  620 

1  Pours  out  at  the  mouth. 


Selected  Poems  291 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron !  " 

cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace  1 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face  625 

As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 

Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide 
sea's  profound ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock,  630 

Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the 
ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past, 
All  are  harboured  to  the  last, 

And  just  as  Herv£  Kiel  hollas   "  Anchor  1"  —  sure  as 
fate  635 

Up  the  English  come  —  too  late  I 


VIII 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm  : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  with  balm.  64o 

"  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 


292  Robert  Browning 

Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away  1 

'Neath    rampired 1    Solidor    pleasant    riding    on    the 
Ranee  ! "  645 

How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  counte- 
nance 1 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

"  This  is  Paradise  for  Hell ! 

Let  France,  let  France's  King 

Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  I  "  650 

What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

"  Herv£  Kiel !  " 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes,  655 

Just  the  same  man  as  before. 


IX 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 

Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips :  660 

You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still.  665 

1  Ramparted. 


Selected   Poems  293 

Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  !   or   my  name's   not 
Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 

On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 

As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 

Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  :  670 

"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo   Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it 

but  a  run  ?  — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may  — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore  —  675 

Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle 

Auror,e  !  " 
That  he  asked  and  that  he  got,  —  nothing  more. 

XI 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost: 

Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post  680 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack, 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for   whom   had   gone   to 

wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  England 
bore  the  bell.  685 


294  Robert  Browning 

Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank ! 

You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herv6 

Kiel.   ' 

So,  for  better  and  for  worse,  690 

Herv£  Kiel,  accept  my  verse ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Kiel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honour  France,  love  thy  wife  the 
Belle  Aurore  1 

XI 

PHEIDIPPIDES 

Xaipere,   viKu>fj.ej>. 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock ! 

Gods  of  my  birthplace,  daemons  l  and  heroes,  honour 
to  all !  695 

Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron,  co-equal 
in  praise 

—  Ay,  with  Zeus  the  Defender,  with  Her  of  the  aegis 
and  spear ! 

Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,  praised  be  your 
peer, 

Now,  henceforth  and  forever,  —  O  latest  to  whom  I 
upraise 

Hand  and  heart  and  voice  !  For  Athens,  leave  pas- 
ture and  flock  !  700 

Present  to  help,  potent  to  save,  Pan  —  patron  I  call ! 

1  Lesser  divinities;  guardian  spirits. 


Selected  Poems  295 

Archons  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,  see,  I  return  ! 
See,  'tis  myself  here   standing  alive,  no   spectre  that 

speaks ! 
Crowned    with    the    myrtle,    did    you   command    me, 

Athens  and  you, 

"  Run,  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta  for  aid  ! 
Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She?  "     Your 

command  I  obeyed,  706 

Ran  and  raced :  like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire 

runs  through, 
Was  the  space  between  city  and  city  :  two  days,  two 

nights  did  I  burn 
Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 

Into  their  midst  I  broke  :  breath  served  but  for  "  Persia 
has  come  !  710 

Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves '-tribute,  water  and 
earth ; 

Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria  —  but  Athens,  shall 
Athens  sink, 

Drop  into  dust  and  die  —  the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly 
die, 

Die,  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta,  the  stupid, 
the  stander-by? 

Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch 
o'er  destruction's  brink?  715 

How,  —  when  ?  No  care  for  my  limbs  !  —  there's  light- 
ning in  all  and  some  — 

Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it 
birth  !  " 


296  Robert  Browning 

O  my  Athens  —  Sparta  love  thee  ?    Did  Sparta  respond  ? 

Every  face  of  her  leered  in  a  furrow  of  envy,  mistrust, 

Malice,  —  each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter  of  grati- 
fied hate !  720 

Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast  for  ex- 
cuses. I  stood 

Quivering,  —  the  limbs  of  me  fretting  as  fire  frets,  an 
inch  from  dry  wood : 

"  Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still  they  de- 
bate? 

Thunder,  thou  Zeus !  Athene,  are  Spartans  a  quarry 
beyond 

Swing  of  thy  spear  ?  Phoibos  and  Artemis,  clang  them 
*  Ye  must ' !  "  725 

No  bolt  launched  from  Olumpos  !  Lo,  their  answer  at 
last! 

"  Has  Persia  come,  —  does  Athens  ask  aid,  —  may 
Sparta  befriend  ? 

Nowise  precipitate  judgment  —  too  weighty  the  issue 
at  stake  ! 

Count  we  no  time  lost  time  which  lags  through  respect  to 
the  gods ! 

Ponder  that  precept  of  old, 'No  warfare,  whatever  the  odds 

In  your  favour,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half-orbed,  is  un- 
able to  take  731 

Full-circle  her  state  in  the  sky  ! '  Already  she  rounds 
to  it  fast : 

Athens  must  wait,  patient  as  we  —  who  judgment  sus- 
pend." 


Selected  Poems  297 

Athens,  —  except  for  that  sparkle,  —  thy  name,  I  had 

mouldered  to  ash  ! 
That  sent  a  blaze  through  my  blood  ;  off,  off  and  away 

was  I  back,  735 

—  Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose  on  the  false 

and  the  vile  ! 
Yet  "  O  gods  of  my  land  1  "  I  cried,  as  each  hillock 

and  plain, 
Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rushing  past  them 

again, 
"  Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of  honours    we 

paid  you  erewhile  ? 
Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,  the  fulsome  libation  1    Too 

rash  740 

Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  service  so  slack  1 

"  Oak  and  olive  and  bay,  —  I  bid  you  cease  to  enwreathe 
Brows  made  bold  by  your  leaf  1     Fade  at  the  Persian's 

foot, 
You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should  never  adorn 

a  slave  I 
Rather  I  hail  thee,  Parnes,  —  trust  to  thy  wild  waste 

tract !  745 

Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain !     What  matter  if 

slacked 

My  speed  may  hardly  be,  for  homage  to  crag  and  to  cave 
No  deity  deigns  to  drape  with  verdure  ?  —  at  least  I  can 

breathe, 
Fear  in  thee  no  fraud  from  the  blind,  no  lie  from  the 

mute  1  " 


198  Robert  Browning 

Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over  Fames'  ridge ;        750 
Gully  and  gap  I  clambered  and  cleared  till,  sudden,  a 

bar 
Jutted,  a  stoppage  of   stone  against  me,  blocking  the 

way. 
Right !  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse,  the  fissure 

across : 
"  Where  I  could  enter,  there  I  depart  by !  Night  in  the 

fosse  ? 
Athens  to  aid  ?  Though  the  dive  were  through  Erebos, 

thus  I  obey —  755 

Out  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely  arise !  No 

bridge 
Better!"  —  when  —  ha!   what   was   it   I   came   on,  of 

wonders  that  are  ? 

There,   in  the    cool    of    a  cleft,    sat  he  —  majestical 

Pan! 
Ivy  drooped  wanton,  kissed  his  head,  moss  cushioned 

his  hoof ; 
All  the  great  god  was  good  in  the  eyes  grave-kindly  — 

the  curl  760 

Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a  mortal's  awe 
As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the   goat-thighs   grand  I 

saw. 
"Halt,  Pheidippides  ! "  —  halt   I   did,  my  brain   of   a 

whirl : 
"  Hither  to  me  !  Why  pale  in  my  presence  ?  "  he  gracious 

began  : 
"  How  is  it,  —  Athens,  only  in  Hellas,  holds  me  aloof? 


Selected  Poems  299 

"  Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,  makes   me   no 

feast !  766 

Wherefore  ?     Than   I   what   godship  to   Athens  more 

helpful  of  old  ? 

Ay,  and  still,  and  for  ever  her  friend !  Test  Pan,  trust  me  \ 
Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,  laugh  Persia  to  scorn,  have 

faith 
In  the  temples  and  tombs !     Go,  say  to  Athens,  *  The 

Goat-God  saith :  770 

When  Persia  —  so  much  as  strews  not  the  soil  —  is  cast 

in  the  sea, 
Then  praise  Pan  who  fought  in  the  ranks  with  your  most 

and  least, 
Goat-thigh  to  greaved-thigh,  made  one  cause  with  the 

free  and  the  bold  !  * 

"  Say  Pan  saith :  '  Let  this,  foreshowing  the  place,  be 
the  pledge  !  '  " 

(Gay,  the  liberal  hand  held  out  this  herbage  I  bear    775 

—  Fennel  —  I  grasped  it  a-tremble  with  dew  —  what- 
ever it  bode) 

"  While,  as  for  thee  "...  But  enough  !  He  was  gone. 
If  I  ran  hitherto  — 

Be  sure  that,  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran  no  longer,  but 
flew. 

Parnes  to  Athens  —  earth  no  more,  the  air  was  my  road  : 

Here  am  I  back.  Praise  Pan,  we  stand  no  more  on  the 
razor's  edge !  780 

Pan  for  Athens,  Pan  for  me  !  I  too  have  a  guerdon  rare  ! 


300  Robert  Browning 

Then  spoke  Miltiades.  "  And  thee,  best  runner  of  Greece, 
Whose  limbs  did  duty  indeed,  —  what  gift  is  promised 

thyself  ? 
Tell  it  us  straightway,  —  Athens  the  mother  demands 

of  her  son  I  " 
Rosily  blushed  the  youth  :  he  paused :   but,  lifting  at 

length  785 

His  eyes  from  the  ground,  it  seemed  as  he  gathered  the 

rest  of  his  strength 
Into  the  utterance  —  "  Pan  spoke  thus  :  '  For  what  thou 

hast  done 
Count  on  a  worthy  reward!     Henceforth   be   allowed 

thee  release 
From  the  racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in  praise  or  in  pelf  P 

"  I  am  bold  to  believe,  Pan  means  reward  the  most  to 

my  mind !  790 

Fight  I  shall,  with  our  foremost,  wherever  this  fennel 

may  grow,  — 
Pound  —  Pan  helping  us  —  Persia  to  dust,  and,  under 

the  deep, 
Whelm  her  away  for  ever;  and  then,  —  no  Athens  to 

save,  — 

Marry  a  certain  maid,  I  know  keeps  faith  to  the  brave, — 
Hie  to  my  house  and  home :   and,  when  my  children 

shall  creep  795 

Close  to  my  knees,  —  recount  how  the  God  was  awful 

yet  kind, 
Promised  their  sire  reward  to  the  full  —  rewarding  him 

—  sol" 


Selected  Poems  301 

Unforeseeing  one!  Yes,  he  fought  on  the  Marathon 
day: 

So,  when  Persia  was  dust,  all  cried  "  To  Akropolis ! 

Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more!  the  meed  is  thy  due  ! 

'Athens  is  saved,  thank  Pan/  go  shout!"  He  flung 
down  his  shield,  801 

Ran  like  fire  once  more :  and  the  space  'twixt  the  Fen- 
nel-field 

And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which  a  fire  runs 
through, 

Till  in  he  broke  :  "  Rejoice,  we  conquer  !  "  Like  wine 
through  clay, 

Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died  —  the  bliss! 

So,  to  this  day,  when  friend  meets  friend,  the  word  of 

salute  806 

Is  still  "  Rejoice  1  "  —  his  word  which  brought  rejoicing 

indeed. 
So  is  Pheidippides  happy  for  ever,  —  the  noble  strong 

man 
Who  could  race  like  a  god,  bear  the  face  of  a  god,  whom 

a  god  loved  so  well ; 
He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was 

suffered  to  tell  810 

Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,  but,  gloriously  as  he 

began, 
So  to  end  gloriously  —  once   to   shout,    thereafter  be 

mute : 
"  Athens  is  saved  !  "  —  Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout 

for  his  meed. 


JO2  Robert  Browning 

XII 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 
\j    /  /  (u   y  '}  v      I 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call  815 

That  piece,  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf 's  hands 

Worked  busily  a"  day,  and  there  stfe  stands. 

WilPt  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?     I  said 

"  Fra  Pandolf  "  by  design,  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance,  820 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 

How  such  a  glance  came  there  ;  sp,  not  the  first        825 

Are  you  to  turn  an,d  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 

Het  hu^bahd's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 

O¥  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  sa^;  "  li£r  mantle  laps 

Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  of  "  Paint  830 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  tKe  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat :  "  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  made  glad,     835 

Too  easily  impressed  :  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one  !     My  favour  at  her  breast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool  84o 


Selected  Poems  303 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.      She   thanked   men,  —  good!   but 

thanked 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if  she  ranked         845 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling  ?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just  this  850 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me  ;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  " —  and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

\j          i    J  *&  i         t  / 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stoopirrg  ;  and  I  choose   855 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?     This  grew ;  I  gave  commands ; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will't  please  you  rise  ?     We'll  meet       860 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed  865 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me ! 


304  Robert  Browning 

XIII 

UP  AT  A  VILLA  —  DOWN  IN  THE  CITY 

(As  distinguished  by  an  Italian  Person  of  Quality) 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to 
spare,  870 

The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city- 
square  ; 

Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window 
there ! 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at 

least ! 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect 

feast ; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more 

than  a  beast.  875 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa !  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a 

bull 

Just  on  a  mountain-edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 
—  I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair's 

turned  wool. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city  —  the  square  with  the  houses  ! 

Why  ?  880 

They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there's  something 

to  take  the  eye  ! 
Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry ; 


Selected  Poems  305 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who 

hurries  by ; 
Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the 

sun  gets  high  ; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted 

properly.  885 

What  of  a  villa  ?     Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by 

rights, 
'Tis  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well 

off  the  heights : 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen 

steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  grey 

olive  trees. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?    You've  summer  all  at 

once ;  890 

In   a   day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April 

suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three 

fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great 

red  bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to 

pick  and  sell. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?  There's  a  fountain  to 
spout  and  splash  !  895 

In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs ;  in  the  shine  such 
foambows  flash 

SELECTIONS  —  2O 


306  Robert  Browning 

On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and 

paddle  and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch  —  fifty  gazers  do  not 

abash, 
Though   all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her 

waist  in  a  sort  of  sash. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though 

you  linger,  900 

Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  lifted 

forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'the  corn 

and  mingle, 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem 

a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is 

shrill, 
And   the   bees   keep   their  tiresome  whine  round  the 

resinous  firs  on  the  hill.  905 

Enough  of  the  seasons,  —  I  spare  you  the  months  of 

the  fever  and  chill. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church- 
bells  begin  : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in : 
,  You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin. 

By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets 
blood,  draws  teeth  ;  910 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  be- 
neath. 


Selected  Poems  307 

At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture  —  the  new  play, 

piping  hot ! 
And   a   notice   how,  only  this   morning,   three   liberal 

thieves  were  shot. 
Above   it,   behold   the  Archbishop's   most  fatherly  of 

rebukes, 
And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little 

new  law  of  the  Duke's  !  915 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don 

So-and-so, 
Who  is  Dante,  "Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  Saint  Jerome,  and 

Cicero, 
"  And  moreover,"  (the  Sonnet  goes  rhyming,)  "  the  skirts 

of  Saint  Paul  has  reached, 
Having   preached   us    those    six    Lent-lectures    more 

unctuous  than  ever  he  preached." 
Noon  strikes,  —  here  sweeps  the  procession  I  our  Lady 

borne  smiling  and  smart  920 

With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords 

stuck  in  her  heart ! 
Bang-whang-whang  goes   the   drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the 

fife; 

No  keeping  one's   haunches  still:  it's  the  greatest  pleas- 
ure in  life. 


But  bless   you,  it's   dear  —  it's   dear  !  fowls,  wine,   at 

double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil 

pays  passing  the  gate  925 


308  Robert  Browning 

It's  a  horror  to  think  of.     And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not 

the  city  1 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers :  but  still  —  ah,  the 

pity,  the  pity ! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with 

cowls  and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the 

yellow  candles  ; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross 

with  handles,  930 

And   the    Duke's   guard   brings   up   the   rear,  for  the 

better  prevention  of  scandals  : 
Bang-whang-whang  goes    the   drum,   tootle-te-tootle  the 

fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure 

in  life ! 


NOTES 


LORD  BYRON 

41.  On  one  of  these  columns  Byron's  name  is  carved.     [See 
Naefs  Guide  quoted  by  Mr.  E.  H.  Coleridge.] 

42.  The  large,  white-walled  Chateau  de  Chillon  stands  on  the 
shores  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  between  the  Alps  and  the  entrances 
of  the  Rhone.      [See  Naef.] 

415.    Napoleon's  retreat  from  Moscow,  1812. 

512.  Pricking  on.  Cf.  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  Canto  1, 1.  I. 
This  may  be  one  of  the  many  reminiscences  of  older  poetry  with 
which  Byron's  remarkable  memory  was  stored. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

209.    "There  are  [those]  who  ask  not." 

257.  Two  Voices.  The  voice  of  the  sea  is  that  of  England,  the 
voice  of  the  mountain  is  of  Switzerland,  which  was  usurped,  in 
1800,  by  the  French,  under  Napoleon. 

XI.   Venice  was  taken  by  the  French  in  1 797. 

351.    Cf.  Milton's  Lycidas,  1.  37. 

628.    The  family  name  of  the  Marquis  of  Queensberry  is  Douglas. 

757.    Cf.  previous  lines  99,  loo. 

XXIX.  This  poem  contains  many  quotations  from  a  beautiful 
ballad  by  Hamilton  of  Bangour  (1704-1754)  called  The  Braes  of 
Yarrow.  Certain  of  the  passages  reproduced  will  be  found  in  the 
stanzas  below. 

309 


jio  Notes 

"  Sweet  smells  the  birk,  green  grows,  green  grows  the  grass, 

Yellow  on  Yarrow's  bank  the  gowan, 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 
Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowin'. 

"  Flows  Yarrow  sweet  ?  as  sweet,  as  sweet  flows  Tweed, 

As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow, 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk, 
The  apple  frae  the  rock  as  mellow. 

"  Fair  was  thy  love,  fair,  fair  indeed  thy  love ; 

In  flowery  bands  thou  him  didst  fetter; 
Though  he  was  fair  and  weil  beloved  again, 
Than  me  he  never  lo'ed  thee  better. 

"  Busk  ye,  then  busk,  my  bonny,  bonny  bride; 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow ; 
Busk  ye,  and  lo'e  me  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

XXXVI.     "Written   soon   after  the   death,   by  shipwreck,   of 
Wordsworth's  brother  John."     [Palgrave.] 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

310.  Interlunar  swoon  is  explained  by  Palgrave  as  the  "  interval 
of  the  moon's  invisibility." 

531.  "Arcturus  never  sets;  hence  the  ever  blooming  daisies  are 
called  Arcturi."  [Alexander.] 

772.  The  Maenads  were  the  frenzied  followers  of  Dionysus. 

822.  Mr.  Palgrave  has  given  an  appropriate  title  to  lines  taken 
from  Shelley's  drama,  Prometheus  Unbound. 

840.  Stain.  In  the  opinion  of  several  editors,  Shelley  here 
meant  "  strain." 

859.  "  Thoughts  "  depends  upon  "  on  "  in  the  following  line. 


Notes  3 1 1 


JOHN   KEATS 

51.    Keats  has  confused  Cortez  and  Balboa. 

III.  Palgrave  has  supplied  a  title  "that  the  aim  of  the  piece 
following  may 'be  grasped  more  clearly." 

V.  "  This  beautiful  sonnet  was  the  last  word  of  a  youth  in  whom, 
if  the  fulfilment  may  ever  safely  be  prophesied  from  the  promise, 
England  lost  one  of  the  most  rarely  gifted  in  the  long  roll  of  her 
poets."  [Palgrave.] 

158.  Shakespeare,  Ben  Jonson,  and  other  "poets  dead  and  gone" 
had  frequented  the  Mermaid. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

I.  These  songs  have  to  do  with  the  uprising  for  King  Charles  I 
against  Parliament,  in  1640. 

IV.    This  poem  has  no  historical  basis. 

IX.  One  Word  More  was  originally  the  final  poem  in  the  collec- 
tion called  Men  and  Women. 

602.   Grfcve.     Sands  left  by  the  outgoing  tide,  near  St.  Malo. 

686-689.  This  refers  to  statues  and  other  memorials  in  the 
Louvre. 

702.  Archons.  Magistrates.  —  Tettix.  A  golden  cicada  worn 
as  an  emblem. 

704.   The  myrtle  wreath  was  the  badge  of  the  messenger. 

776.  Fennel.  "Fennel  field,  in  Greek  Marathon;  and  Pan 
meant  when  he  gave  Pheidippides  the  bunch  of  fennel  to  signify 
the  place  where  the  victory  would  be  won."  [Miss  Porter  and 
Miss  Clarke.] 


TEACHERS'      OUTLINES 
FOR  STUDIES  IN  ENGLISH 

Based  on  the  Requirements  for  Admission  to  College 

By  GILBERT  SYKES  BLAKELY,  A.M.,  Instructor  in 
English  in  the  Morris  High  School,  New  York  City. 

Jo.  50 


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A    HISTORY    OF    ENGLISH 
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By    REUBEN    POST    HALLECK,    M.A.    (Yale), 
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HALLECK'S   HISTORY    OF   ENGLISH   LIT- 
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A  PUNCTUATION  PRIMER 

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THE  Punctuation  Primer  is  a  manual  of  first  principles 
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^[  The  discussion  is  taken  up  under  two  main  divisions: 
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INTRODUCTORY  COURSE 
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By  FRANCES    M.    PERRY,  Instructor  in  English  in 
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AN  INTRODUCTORY  COURSE   IN  ARGU- 
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ary schools. 

^y  The  subject  has  been  simplified  as  much  as  has  been  pos- 
sible without  lessening  its  educative  value,  yet  no  difficul- 
ties have  been  slighted.  The  beginner  is  set  to  work  to 
exercise  his  reasoning  power  on  familiar  material  and  with- 
out the  added  difficulty  of  research.  Persuasion  has  not  been 
considered  until  conviction  is  fully  understood.  The  two 
methods  in  use  in  teaching  argumentation — the  brief-draw- 
ing method  and  the  syllogistic  method — have  been  com- 
bined, so  that  the  one  will  help  the  student  to  grasp  the  other. 
^y  The  volume  is  planned  and  proportioned  with  the  ex- 
pectation that  it  will  be  closely  followed  as  a  text-book 
rather  than  used  to  supplement  an  independent  method  of 
presentation.  To  that  end  each  successive  step  is  given  ex- 
plicit exposition  and  full  illustration,  and  carefully  graded 
exercises  are  provided  to  test  the  student's  understanding 
of  an  idea,  and  fix  it  in  his  memory. 
^y  The  course  is  presented  in  three  divisions  ;  the  first  re- 
lating to  finding  and  formulating  the  proposition  for  argu- 
ment, the  second  to  proving  the  proposition,  and  the  last, 
to  finding  the  material  to  prove  the  proposition — research. 


AMERICAN  BOOK    COMPANY 

(S.  103) 


WEBSTER'S     SECONDARY 
SCHOOL  DICTIONARY 


Full  buckram,  8vo,  864  pages.      Containing  over  70,000 
words,  with  1000  illustrations. 


THIS  NEW  DICTIONARY  is  based  on  Webster's 
New  International  Dictionary  and  therefore  conforms 
to  the  best  present  usage.  It  presents  the  largest  number 
of  words  and  phrases  ever  included  in  a  school  dictionary 
— all  those,  however  new,  likely  to  be  needed  by  any  pupil. 
It  is  a  reference  book  for  the  reader  and  a  guide  in  the  use  of 
English,  both  oral  and  written.  It  fills  every  requirement 
that  can  be  expected  of  a  dictionary  of  moderate  size. 
^|  This  new  book  gives  the  preference  to  forms  of  spelling 
now  current  in  the  United  States.  In  the  matter  of  pro- 
nunciation such  alternatives  are  included  as  are  in  very 
common  use.  Each  definition  is  in  the  form  of  a  specific 
statement  accompanied  by  one  or  more  synonyms,  between 
which  careful  discrimination  is  made. 
^|  In  addition,  this  dictionary  includes  an  unusual  amount 
of  supplementary  information  of  value  to  students:  the 
etymology,  syllabication  and  capitalization  of  words; 
many  proper  names  from  folklore,  mythology,  and  the 
Bible;  a  list  of  prefixes  and  suffixes;  all  irregularly  in- 
flected forms;  rules  for  spelling;  2329  lists  of  synonyms, 
in  which  3518  words  are  carefully  discriminated;  answers 
to  many  questions  on  the  use  of  correct  English  constantly 
asked  by  pupils;  a  guide  to  pronunciation;  abbreviations 
used  in  writing  and  printing;  a  list  of  1200  foreign  words 
and  phrases;  a  dictionary  of  5400  proper  names  of  persons 
and  places,  etc. 


AMERICAN     BOOK     COMPANY 

(S.  105) 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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FEB  ZTBHT^M 

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